


School Days

by Meowmers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 106,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowmers/pseuds/Meowmers
Summary: They meet on the playground. Ron told her that if she doesn’t fight for herself no one will ever leave her alone so she’s just trying to follow his advice. “Are you crying?” He asks. She musters all the fury in her 7-year-old body and channels it into her voice when she speaks through the tears. “So what? I’ll still kick your arse.”
Crossposted from ffnet. Tomione, Muggle AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my loves!!!!
> 
> Someone asked for me to post my stories on this site, too, so I thought I would start with this one since its my favorite. I'll post the rest of the chapters that I have so far tomorrow, probably, I just wanted to post one now so I could see how this site worked. 
> 
> So here it is! <3

Hermione hated school. She hated the children and she hated the teachers and she hated the never-ending, dull, simplicity of the lessons, she hated the fact that most days she was sitting in a classroom before the sun even rose and she hated the fact that she couldn’t even enjoy learning because she never learned anything. She hated Draco Malfoy’s smug face as he sat across from her in class, she hated Gregory Goyle’s ‘accidental’ bumps into her desk, she hated Pansy Parkinson’s snarky comments—she hated everything about school.

She never told her parents. They had been so excited—she had been so excited—when she was accepted into Hogwarts Primary school. She thought it would be a magical place where she could read whatever she wanted and the teachers would encourage her to learn and to explore and she would be surrounded by people who loved it all as much as she did. But the truth was it wasn’t magical, it was dark and dull like a prison. And the teachers didn’t care about her or anyone else, and she was surrounded by people who didn't care about anything but who was playing tag on the playground. 

And she didn’t like tag. She was always it, and when she wasn’t it, she was getting chased all over the playground by whoever was it until they inevitably shoved her to the ground and then she had to chase all of them. So she didn’t play.

She thought she might’ve found a friend in one boy, once. His name was Harry Potter and he was nice and he complemented the book she was reading. His glasses were broken and she helped him tape them together in the middle before school started. He didn’t care that much about history or multiplication or science but he was kind to her and she thought finally—finally—she had a friend who understood her, even if he didn’t share her passions.

He was nine years old. Two years older than her and he didn’t even share recess with her except for on Fridays, so she only saw him for thirty minutes every week unless they happened upon each other on the way into school. And during recess he was always with his horrid friend Ron, but at least when Harry was around Ron wouldn’t insult her—at least not outright—so she was just happy to have someone to be with for a while.

“Are you really reading again?” Ron asks her one Friday when his and Harry’s class was late to recess. She had sat herself down on the corner of the asphalt away from the other children’s games to read her new book. Certain he was going to insult it, she glared up at him and readied herself. “What’s this one now? The history of China or some shit?”

“You can’t say things like that, Ronald,” She lectured, snapping her book shut and hopping to her feet, setting her hands on her hips and somehow managing to look haughty while staring up at the older boy, “That’s a naughty word. And for your information, I’m reading about the colonization of—“

“I don’t bloody care, Hermione,” He cut her off with a laugh, and while she was ready to be upset, his next words tempered her anger, “That rubbish goes over my fuckin’ head anyway.”

“You really should stop swearing, Ron,” She pressed, looking around herself tentatively, “If a teacher heard you, you would be in big trouble—“

“Ron has, like, seventeen older brothers, Hermione,” Harry interjected, “It would be a miracle if he didn’t swear.”

“I’m ten now, you know?” Ron added, “Double-digits means you can swear!”

She pursed her lips in disagreement—just because his older siblings swore like sailors, didn’t mean he had to, and his being ten had nothing to do with anything—but she kept quiet. She was just happy to see them, if she was honest. “Why were you late?” She asked.

“Our class got in trouble,” Harry answered, “The teacher kept us late as punishment.” 

“Well, why were you—“ She started to ask, but she suddenly felt a firm force push her to the ground. Her book went flying out of her hands so that she could catch herself before she face planted on the ground, scratching up the palms of her hands and the tops of her knees in the process. She turned her head to see Malfoy grinning, laughing.

“Tag, Granger!” He called, “You’re it!”

“I’m not playing, Malfoy!” She objected, tears jumping to her eyes as she examined her now bleeding palms. Malfoy laughed again, bouncing on his feet as if ready to flee the moment she got up. 

“Too bad, you are now!” He insisted.

“Oi,” Harry interrupted, glaring down at Draco, “She said she’s not playing, beat it Malfoy,”

The little blonde boy’s face fell into a scowl, glaring up at the older boy with disdain, tilting his chin up so he could still look down his nose at the taller boy—at least as best he could—and he sneered, “Fine, Potter, keep your loser girlfriend—“

“Sod off, Ferret!” Ron snapped, taking a step toward him. Malfoy jumped back, glaring at the two of them as he left quickly, giving chase to another child who was actually playing the game of tag. 

Hermione reached for her book, clutching it to her chest and pushing back tears as she stood, ignoring the sting of her hands and knees. “Are you alright?” Harry asked.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Hermione snapped, glaring at the children playing tag not too far away, “He does that all the time.” 

“You shouldn’t let them walk all over you,” Ron told her, setting his hand on her shoulder in what she was certain as supposed to be a comforting gesture but it just felt condescending to her. 

“And what am I supposed to do?” She challenged, stepping away from his hand so she could fully face him and glare up at his concerned face, “Mr. Snape loves him and hates me, so I can’t tell him. If I tell my parents—“

“I’m not saying tell anyone—“ Ron cut in.

“You should tell someone—“ Harry tried to interject but Ron continued as if he didn’t.

“I’m saying you need to stick up for yourself!” He finished, “Let them know you’re not to be messed with.”

“I can’t fight everyone like you do, Ron,” She seethed.

“Why not?” He challenged, “You don’t have to fight Malfoy. Just fight someone Malfoy knows—someone Malfoy wouldn’t mess with—and then he won’t mess with you!”

“Oh, shut up, Ron,” She mumbled, clutching her book tighter to her chest and glancing down at her skidded knees. 

“I’m tryin’ to help!” He defended himself, but Hermione was too upset with everyone at the moment to care. Everyone in her class hated her—she couldn’t exactly fight all of them! And her parents had instilled in her that fighting was wrong, you only ever fought to defend yourself and even then if you could avoid it you did. She couldn’t just go around punching everyone like he did.

“I’m going to go read.” She snapped, forgetting or perhaps not caring that this was the one recess a week they had together, “I don’t want to talk to either of you!”

They let her leave. It wasn’t the only time she had done this, after all, and they had learned that when they pressed her it only made things worse. She couldn’t help her anger. She was surrounded by children who hated her, her own teacher hated her, and the only people who she could call her friends were two grades above her and the only advice the had was to fight everyone. 

She sat a few meters away from them and flipped open her book but she didn’t read it. She was fuming over Malfoy, distracted by the blood still collecting lightly on her knees and palms, wishing Hogwarts could be the haven she thought it would be. She pushed back the tears—because she was such a crybaby all the time, sh had to pick and choose what she would allow herself to cry over—and tried to focus on her new book. But the blood from her palm had soaked into the page she was on, calling the tears back to her eyes—she had ruined her book—so she angrily wiped her hand off on her skirt and stood, marching toward the grassy, back section of the playground usually reserved fro the older children and sat under the big tree to cry.

She hated everything about this stupid school. Except for Harry and Ron, but then they weren’t much help when it came to dealing with everything else. Would fighting Malfoy—or, as Ron suggested, fighting someone Malfoy wouldn’t have the guts to fight himself—really fix any of this? She supposed that, maybe, it might make him leave her alone, but it could also isolate her. How could she make friends if everyone thought she was going to beat them up?

“You’re in my spot.” She kept her head down only a moment longer so she could wipe the tears from her cheeks before snapping her chin up to meet the dark, angry glower of an older boy she didn’t know. He had a book in his hands, too, but it was written in a language she didn’t know. He looked very scary. He was tall for his age, older than her—maybe even older than Harry—and he looked very, very mad at her for some reason.

“Who are you?” She asked.

“Tom,” He answered simply, “And I’m in year six—“ She supposed that was his way of telling her she had to do what he told her, because he was older, “And you’re in my spot. Move.”

She didn’t at first. If he hadn’t been here all recess then she didn’t really think he had the right to come yell at her about it now, but then she also knew that the grassy area of the playground was always meant for the older kids. She knew she should move, and this boy was very, very scary, and he looked like he would hurt her if she didn’t move—

He looked very, very scary. Very scary. Malfoy would never fight this boy.

She observed him for a moment longer. Maybe she could fight him?

A whistle rang out, and she turned her head to see the teachers gesturing for the children to line up. She looked back at the boy—Tom—to see him roll his eyes and walk away to go line up to go inside. But she hadn’t even managed to—

She huffed, deciding that maybe it was for the best. She could sleep on it tonight and decide tomorrow if she wanted to fight Tom from year six or not. She picked up her book and ran to her class’s line, waving to Harry and Ron as she went so they would know she wasn’t angry at them.

Maybe Tom from year six could be the key to getting Malfoy and his bully friends to leave her alone. No one would fight that scary boy. Maybe if she did, everyone would just leave her alone.

She would sleep on it and decide tomorrow.

—

She didn’t really sleep on it, because she spent half the night practicing punching her pillow. The more she thought about it the more she decided that maybe Ron was right. She wasn’t making any friends, and no matter how much she tried to distance herself away from her classmates, she kept seeming to make enemies. So if she could eliminate the enemies—or at least, make them afraid of her a bit—then she could at least enjoy her lessons and play with Harry and Ron when they had recess together. 

The scary boy from year six would be perfect. Fighting Malfoy would backfire because Snape would take his side, and any one of Malfoy’s friends would garner the same result. She didn’t want to fight Harry or Ron, and she didn’t want to start a fight with someone who didn’t deserve it. But the scary boy was rude, and he seemed to think he owned that tree—which he didn’t—so why shouldn’t she start a fight with him?

It would be nice if she won, but she probably wouldn’t. He was much bigger than her, after all. But as long as she landed a good punch or two—

Her parents would be angry, probably. Definitely. She wasn’t sure how she would explain it, but maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she would say he started it, or Ron told her to, or—something. She would think of something.

She spent Saturday and Sunday playing out the scenarios in her head. She would wait until he shared her recess again, and she would sit in his spot and when he started to get nasty—because he probably would, he looked like he would, with his angry face—she would fight him. It would be easy. Simple. And then word would get around that Hermione Granger fought the scary boy and everything would be over—

Monday came and she sat under his tree and waited. 

“You’re in my spot again,” He told her.

She looked up at him, trying to look bored and uninterested in hopes to anger him. “I don’t have to do what you say just because you’re older than me,” She told him.

“Yes you do,” He argued.

“No, I—“

“What are you reading?” He asked suddenly. His eyes had trained on the book in her lap—she had almost finished it—and she floundered for a moment.

“It’s about the colonization of—what do you care?” She spat. He gave a lazy, one shouldered shrug.

“I don’t,” He admitted, and then he walked toward her and sat down next to her and said nothing else. He just sat beside her and stretched out his long legs and opened his book and started reading beside her and—no, no this wasn’t right, he was supposed to get angry, she was supposed to fight him—

“What language is that?” She asked

“Arabic,” He answered shortly.

“You read Arabic?” She asked.

“I read a lot of languages,” He answered vaguely, sounding a bit stuck-up about it if she was honest. She wrinkled her nose, looking over the pages, angry that she could make no sense of it. She was a bit confused, if she was honest. Why was the scary boy sitting beside her reading? Wasn’t he going to make her move?

“Are you not going to fight me?” She asked.

“Fight you?” He echoed, turning his head to look down upon her, “You’re tiny, why would I fight you? I would crush you.”

“No you wouldn’t!” She cried, snapping her own book shut and turning toward him. He didn’t do the same, simply continued to read even as her anger increased. “I could win! Just because you’re scary doesn’t mean I would lose.”

“You think I’m scary?” He asked, a smile playing on his lips and making him look even scarier. He still didn’t look back at her, which was probably for the best.

“No.” She lied. 

“Well I think you’re cute,” He told her, “Like a bunny. That’s why you would lose.”

“Shut up, I am not cute!” She snapped, sitting up on her knees so she was as tall as him while they sat. “And for your information,” She spat, “Rabbits can be vicious, too”

“Vicious?” He laughed, shutting his book to look at her, and she suddenly wished he wouldn’t. “What will you do, bite my ankles?” She scowled. “Besides, I’m like a snake, and snakes eat rabbits.”

“You are not a snake,” She sneered, “You’re like a…a…”

He raised an eyebrow, “A what?” He prompted sarcastically.

“You’re like a—a house cat or something!” He was scowling now. “Yeah, you have a sour face but—“

“I’m done talking to you,” He snapped, “You can leave.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” She responded with just as much venom, “Just because you’re older doesn’t mean—“

“Are you this annoying to everyone you meet?” He sneered, “You must not have any friends.”

“I have friends,” She spat.

“Doubtful.” He smiled ruefully, “As if anyone could stand being around you for more than a minute. Everyone probably hates you.”

She grit her teeth as she watched him turn his eyes back to his book, ignoring her as if she was nothing. How could he say such cruel things and then just pretend she wasn’t even there? Despite her anger, she felt tears spring to her eyes, mostly because he was right. Everyone did hate her. The only people who didn’t were Harry and Ron, but even they got annoyed with her most times. She didn’t really have any close friends, but that didn’t mean he had any right to comment on it. It didn’t look like he had any friends either, so who was he to judge her?

At this point she was already crying, but she still shot to her feet and stood over him, her little hands clenched into fists and her voice strong—fueled by her anger—despite the trembling of her lip. “If you want me to leave you’ll have to fight me!” She told him.

He looked up, his expression utterly bored until his eyes caught sight of her face and then his expression changed into something like confusion. “Are you crying?” He asked.

She mustered all the fury in her 7-year-old body and channeled it into her voice when she spoke through the tears, “No,” she spat. But when a tear escaped her eye she madly wiped it away with the back of her hand and amended, “Yes.” And after another moment, trying to channel her inner Ronald Weasley, she spat, “So what? I’ll still kick your arse,” 

Both his eyebrows shot up in what she was fairly certain was amusement. So, still crying and feeling like a baby, knowing she needed to prove herself, she said, “Get up! I’ll punch you in the face, fight me!”

He stood up. She clenched her jaw and willed herself not to show any fear as he towered over her—he was so tall, what the hell—and she tried to hold back her frustrated tears because this was the moment, this was the moment where everything would change. All she had to do was land a solid punch on his stupid, smug mouth and then let word get back to Malfoy and she would be free of all of his stupid, mean—

He took a step toward her and she swung with all her might, but he ducked. “Stop,” He ordered evenly, catching her wrist and setting a hand on her shoulder, “Are you serious? I’m twice your size.”

“You’re just scared I’ll win!” She told him, pulling her wrist back but he held it firm in his grip.

“No,” He said, very slowly as if she were mentally deficient, “I could snap you like a twig—“

“Do it then, scary boy!” She egged him on, pulling her arm even though he refused to let go, “Just—fight—me—“

“I know why you’re doing this,” He suddenly said, and she paused. “You’re trying to prove yourself, but this is a reckless way to do it. If I wanted to I could have broken your arm and you would have proven nothing.”

She remained silent, glowering at his shoes. “I didn’t ask for your advice.” She told him.

“No,” He agreed, “You asked me to fight you. That was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” She argued, and echoing his words from before she said, “It was reckless.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Reckless and stupid,” He corrected. “Who is it?”

“Who is who?” She spat in return.

“Whoever you’re trying to scare.”

She finally managed to wrench her wrist free and take two large steps back from him, but she couldn’t leave because her book was still lying beside the tree behind him and she wasn’t about to leave that behind. “What do you care?” She asked.

“I don’t,” He said simply, giving her that one shouldered shrug again. “But if it’ll get you to stop bothering me I can get rid of him for you.”

She hesitated, the defensive set of her shoulders slumping for a moment as she regarded the ease he said that with. So many questions sprung to her mind in that moment—what did he mean get rid of him? Was he offering to make her go away or to stop her from being upset? Could he really make Malfoy leave him alone?—but in the end her stubborn pride won out and she told him, “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.” And after a moment of him looking at her as if he really didn’t believe that, she added, “I’m tough.”

He laughed then, outright laughed at her as if she had made a joke. “No, you’re not,” He said, laughing through his words, “Tell me who he is and I’ll deal with him.”

“I don’t want you to deal with him!” She said, stomping her foot, “I want to deal with him myself!” 

He sighed tiredly, and looked as if he was ready to reply but the teacher blew their whistle and the children began lining up. She noticed his jaw clench and he looked down at their books. She made a move to pick hers up but his words stopped her. “Can I borrow your book?”

She hesitated, “But I’m not done.”

“I’ll give it back. We can trade books.” He offered, picking his own book up and holding it out to her.

“I can’t read that,” She argued.

“Well, I’ll bring an english one tomorrow. You can keep this as collateral.” He stretched his arm out further to extend the book to her. She eyed it suspiciously.

“Collateral,” She echoed quietly.

“It means I give you something that I’ll want back so you know I’ll do what I’m saying I will.” He informed her evenly.

“I know what collateral means,” She snapped, but it was a lie, because she hadn’t known. He smiled as if he knew.

“Hurry up and make up your mind, we have to line up.” He told her, shaking the book.

“When will I get the other book?” She asked.

“Meet me tomorrow morning by the bike rack outside the school before the first bell rings.” He told her, “I’ll have a new book for you.”

She paused, eyeing the book for a moment before nodding, taking it from his extended hand and placing her own book in his open palm. He smiled again.

“Why are we trading books?” She asked, “That’s what friends do.”

His smile was replaced with a frown. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” He scolded her, causing her mouth to turn down in a frown that matched his, “Come on, we have to line up.”

He turned and jogged toward the other students without another word, leaving her to trudge along after him and join her own class.

She wasn’t sure whether to count that interaction as a success or a failure, but when she sat down at her desk inside and Goyle bumped into it so hard that borrowed book tumbled to the floor and he laughed, she figured it was more than likely a failure.

Next time, then. Tomorrow morning.

—

The next morning she convinced her parents to drop her off an hour earlier than normal, hoping that she could be at the bike racks first, but when they walked her to the front of the school and left, she could see Tom already sitting by the bikes waiting for her. He was reading her book.

“This is a good book,” He told her, and she got the distinct feeling that he was somehow praising her, not just the book, as if the very fact that she had it made her somehow worthy in his eyes. “They don’t teach this in lessons.”

“Not even in year six?” She asked, feeling a bit dejected at the thought.

“No.” He said, “They brush over it.” He turned to his side to reach into his book bag and pull out a thick book and hand it to her, “Here’s your book, do you have mine?”

She nodded quickly, reaching into her bag and pulling out his foreign book and handing it back to him so he could place it in his own bag. She looked over the cover of the worn book he had offered her, titled ‘the man who mistook his wife for a hat’ and she scowled at him.

“This sounds stupid,” She told him, “Like a children’s story.”

“It’s not,” He replied, looking offended, “It’s about a real man who couldn’t tell the difference between his wife and a hat. It’s stories about people with psychological disorders.”

She hesitated, turning the book over in her hands once or twice before muttering, “I guess I’ll read it.”

“If you don’t like it I can take it back,” He told her irritably, reaching for it but—since she was standing-she was able to hold it up out of his reach. 

“No!” She objected, “No. I want it.” He smiled victoriously before turning back to her book in his hands. She waited for him to say something else but he didn’t, just sat there and ignored her. “Is that it?” She asked.

“What did you expect?” He parried quickly, not looking up from the text. She frowned.

“I wanted to talk to you—“

“Why?” He asked, his face scrunching up into something caught between confusion and disgust as he regarded her from where he was sat upon the cement. She huffed, sinking to her knees beside him and laying her new book in her lap. 

“Because we’re friends now, right? You gave me collateral and now you gave me a book—“

“Why do you keep asking that?” He sneered, snapping his book shut—she counted that as a small victory—so he could pay attention to her fully. “What does it matter if we’re friends?”

“You said yourself I don’t have friends,” She spat, “Maybe I want a friend!”

“I don’t want to be your friend.” He said simply. She was outrageously hurt, for a moment. Sure, he was still the scary boy from year 6 but he also liked her book and he gave her books in return, and he could speak different languages and he was smart and mature and—why didn’t he want to be her friend? Even after she let him borrow her book? She felt furiously angry and furiously upset, so she bounded to her feet again to tower over him. 

“Fine!” She snapped, “If you don’t want to be my friend then maybe you should just fight me like I asked you to!”

He actually rolled his eyes at that, and all he said was, “You’re crying again.”

“Shut up!” She stomped her foot, “I’m not crying—“

“I won’t let you keep your book if you try to fight me.” He told her, looking up at her through his eyelashes in a way that told her he was truly enjoying her anger, enjoying seeing her get upset. Her lower lip trembled and she picked up the book he let her borrow.

“If you want to take it back you have to fight me!”

“How are you going to fight me while you’re crying?” He asked.

“I’m not—“

“Hermione,” He cut in, and it quieted her because she didn’t think she had ever told him her name, “Sit down. No one is going to be afraid of you just because you threaten to fight everyone. You’re puny.”

He was right, really, and that was the only reason her anger didn’t flare when he commented on her size. She sat beside him again, frowning, not crying anymore but feeling like she wanted to. “I didn’t tell you my name.” She mumbled.

“I heard your parents say it,” He admitted, “When they dropped you off.”

She was silent.

“Read your book,” He told her, gesturing to the book in her lap, before turning back to his own reading. She followed his instructions sullenly, opening her book and reading beside him. The book was extraordinarily difficult to understand, but she didn’t want to admit that to him, so she clung to the words she understood and promised herself she would read it later that night with a dictionary. But the book itself was interesting. She still thought it was a bit like children’s stories, but at least they were interesting and true. 

They read together for a while in silence. It wasn’t until the students were starting to flood into the school—signaling that it was almost time for the first bell to ring—that he put his own book away and spoke to her. “Who is it?” He asked.

“Hm?” she responded, shutting her book because he had and picking up her backpack so that she wouldn’t be late to class. 

“The person you’re trying to scare.” He clarified. 

“What do you care?” She muttered sullenly, “You’re not my friend.” She started to leave but he grabbed the top handle of her backpack to stop her, pulling her back and nearly making her fall over. He pulled her back until she stood net to him and he towered over her at her side. He was very intimidating this way.

“What’s his name?” He pressed. She glowered up at him.

“His name is none-of-your-business, scary-boy.” She spat, turning sharply so that his hand slipped from her pack. He glared at her.

“Why do you call me that?” He demanded.

“Because you’re scary,” She told him, “And you’re a boy.”

“That’s uncreative,” He told her, “And it’s not even insulting. It borders on complimentary.”

“Shut up!” She snapped, turning and marching up the steps without another word. Tom glared at her as she left, gritting his teeth before snatching up his knapsack and bounding up the stairs to his own classroom. 

She didn’t see him at recess that day, so she counted Mondays and Fridays (thus far) as days that she could see him on the playground. She was a bit disappointed, to be honest, that he wasn’t there, but then she was also relieved. She thought that maybe she had enough to scary-Tom for one day.

—

They didn’t necessarily agree to meet again the next morning, but they met nonetheless. Hermione’s parents dropped her off and he was there waiting, so she took a seat beside him and he handed her back her book.

“I didn’t bring you another,” She told him, because she hadn’t expected him to be done. He rolled his eyes.

“Of course you didn’t,” He scoffed, then reached into his book for another foreign-language book to read that instead. 

“I’m not done with mine yet,” She told him.

“Of course you’re not.” He muttered. She scowled. 

“You are not very polite,” She mumbled under her breath, opening her book—which she had reread last night with a dictionary in order to better understand it—and reading at his side. He didn’t seem content to just read this time, however.

“Why won’t you just tell me his name?” He asked her after a moment, “I can take care of him for you.”

“I don’t want you to.” She told him. “I want to do it myself.”

He scowled at her, “By fighting everyone?”

“Ron said—“

“Ron who?” He cut in.

“Ronald is my friend,” She clarified, feeling a bit proud when his expression darkened, “And he told me that I have to stand up for myself or they’ll never leave me alone.”

“That’s stupid advice.” He told her, “Is that Ronald Weasley?”

She remained stubbornly silent.

“Weasley gets in fights every week. Do you want to start fighting someone every week?”

She still refused to speak.

“You have to make them afraid of you.” He told her, “They would be afraid of you if they knew you had me—“

“But I don’t,” She argued, “You aren't my friend, you told me so yourself.”

“No I didn’t.” He denied. “I said I didn’t want to be your friend, I never said we weren’t friends.”

She threw her hands up, feeling like she was losing her mind, “That doesn’t make sense, Tom!”

“Tell me who it is,” He pressed, “And I can make it so that he never bothers you again—I can make him pay—“

“If anyone is going to be making Malfoy pay, it’ll be me!” She argued.

“Malfoy?” He echoed, and her heart stuttered when she realized she said his name, “Draco Malfoy? That rich little twat?”

“Tom!” She scolded, raising her hand to wave her finger in the way her mother always did when her father swore, “You can’t use that kind of language—“

He grabbed her hand, unfurling her fingers so he held them in his. The touch was a bit startling because he hadn’t touched her before, she didn’t think, except to grab her wrist when she tried to punch him. But holding hands was something friends did, and he didn’t want to be her friend, so she wasn’t sure why he was holding her hand.

“I’ll make him regret it,” He swore to her, “He won’t bother you again—“

She snatched her hand back, and his expression immediately darkened when she did. “You leave Draco Malfoy alone!” She scolded.

“Why are you defending him?” He demanded.

“Oh, leave me alone, Tom!” She snapped, rising to her feet, “I will handle this myself!”

“Fine!” He snapped, rising to his feet as well, “Then give me my book!”

She hesitated. “What?”

“Give me my book back,” He repeated evenly, holding out his palm for her to place the book in.

“I’m not done.” She argued.

“I don’t care,” He hissed, “Give it back.”

“No!” She refused, clutching the book to her chest and lifting her bag in order to run away. He chased after her, and he caught up to her when she ran around the side of the school, tackling her to the ground and wrestling the book from her grip. He was much bigger than her, so it was easy for him to take the book back. When he stood with his book in hand, she was already crying again.

“Oh, Tom, you’re just a huge bully!” She cried, “Your parents must be ashamed of you!”

“I don’t have parents,” He snapped back, looking extremely pleased with the response. She thought that maybe she should feel sorry for him—he didn’t have nay parents, after all, and she wasn’t sure what she would do if she didn’t have her parents—but she was too angry at him and her elbows were bleeding because of him and how dare he try to make her feel sorry for him when he was being so mean?

“Well, no wonder you’re so cruel and horrible!” She snapped back. He seemed surprised by how unaffected she was by his admission to being an orphan, and if she wasn’t so angry she may have even taken the time to observe that he seemed pleased, “And you have no manners, and you have no friends, and you’re a bully—it’s a good thing you don’t have parents because you would have disappointed them!”

He stared at her in silence. She wasn’t sure what he was feeling but he didn’t look angry. She stood and stomped her foot once as hard as she could and said, “Sod off, scary-Tom!” And marched away from him—actually, she ran away from him—and even though it was far too early she went to her classroom and waited outside the locked door for her teacher to arrive.

But before Mr. Snape arrived, Tom walked by and stopped in front of her. He didn’t look at her but he did extend the book back to her in silence. She stared at it for a moment. “Take it.” He told her.

She did, and he walked away without another word.

—

Draco Malfoy was a bit worse that day than usual, or maybe she was just more sensitive to it because she was already angry. She tried to ignore it as she always did, but she wasn’t sure how long she would be able to ignore him when he was constant.

Part of her wanted to take Tom up on his offer to deal with him, but most of her wanted to handle it herself. She wanted to know that she could handle this herself. 

Tom wasn’t on the playground again, which meant she couldn’t spend Wednesday recess with him either. That was fine, because she definitely didn’t want to spend recess with him today, but it also mean that she had to deal with Draco Malfoy even more that day.

“You’re it, Granger!” He told her after he had pushed her. She didn’t fall to the ground this time, just stumbled and whipped around to glare murderously at him. He laughed, not taking off because he knew she wouldn’t chase him. 

“I’m not playing, Malfoy,” She spat. 

“Sure you are,” He insisted, shrugging as if her words meant nothing. They probably did mean nothing to him. “I tagged you, that means you’re it!”

“No, it doesn’t!” She argued, “Because I’m not playing!”

He took a step forward and pushed her again by the shoulders. She nearly fell over but she just barely managed to catch herself. “You never play, Granger,” He told her.

“Don’t touch me,” She snapped. He sneered at her, that ugly curl of his mouth that he got whenever he spoke to her, as if just being around her disgusted him, and he pushed her again, this time hard enough to send her to the ground. 

He laughed at her, then, and that might have been what set her off. Because she was suddenly on her feet, punching him square in the nose.

The next few moments were a blur. She thinks she saw blood seeping through his fingers, a teacher took her by both arms and hauled her away as Draco was howling on the ground. She thinks she heard the teacher scolding her but she wasn’t sure because she was just thinking about everything that may happen now. She had taken Ron’s advice. She fought him. 

They brought her to the principal’s office and they lectured her for, like, an hour. They called her parents. She tried to tell them that Malfoy started it but she didn’t have any bruises or scrapes that she could prove were from him so they all just kept telling her that she was in the wrong, and—

Her parents didn’t take her to school early the next day no matter how much she begged. They dropped her off exactly five minutes before the bell would ring and she saw Tom sitting by the bikes, glowering angrily down at her book. She hurried toward him.

“I punched Draco Malfoy in the face and it made everything worse,” She told him. His scowl lessened as he stared up at her from his place sitting on the ground. He stood, towering over her again. 

He walked away and didn’t say anything, which she really didn’t think was fair because she was hoping he could give her better advice than Ron had, but apparently he didn’t even care.

She was upset all day. Draco Malfoy glared at her with his bandaged, bruised and swollen nose. Goyle threw her water bottle across the classroom and said she did it which made Snape angry at her. 

She didn’t even try to find Tom at recess, assuming he had no interesting in being around her anyway. She had thought when he gave her that book back that it meant their fight was over, but then she supposed she must’ve been wrong. He had no interest in being her friend.

So she didn’t sit anywhere at recess, because she thought that someone might seek her out and do something mean. She walked around the playground and around the grassy area and tried to think about other things, about the book Tom had lent her which she had almost finished, about the new book about Japanese history that her parents had gotten for her. She let her mind wander and just tried to avoid anyone who didn’t like her—so, everyone.

She heard something on the other side of the metal fence that led to the small expanse of bushes and weeds. She thought it might be an animal or something, because it was a strange, high-pitched whimper that she wasn’t certain could come from a kid. Still, she paused, looking through the fence at the tall greenery and wondering what it could be when she saw—was that a whole in the fence?

She hesitated, because surely she wasn’t allowed through there, but then it was an excellent opportunity to avoid the other children. And she would still be able to hear the whistle when the children needed to line up. 

She crawled through the hole.

And on the other side of the weeds she saw Tom pinning Draco Malfoy to the ground, pushing his face into the grass as he said something in the boy’s ear. And in his hand was—was that—?

“Tom!” She gasped, and his head jerked to the side the he heard her voice, but he didn’t look ashamed or shocked, he mostly just looked annoyed. “What are you doing is that—is that a knife?”

She rushed toward him and noticed that the high pitched noise she had heard before had actually been coming from Malfoy on the ground. Big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks and—she didn’t want this. She hated Malfoy of course but she didn’t want him to cry. “Get off!” She scolded, tugging on Tom’s eyes and feeling her anger spike when he rolled his eyes and followed her command, “What is wrong with you, you can’t threaten him with a knife—you could go to jail or—“

Malfoy sprung to his feet, still hiccuping with sobs as he sputtered, “Wait until my—my father hears about—about this—“

Hermione was mildly shocked by how viciously protective she felt over Tom in that moment. The thought of all the trouble he could get in for this when Malfoy told his dad absolutely horrified her, made her wonder if he could go to juvenile prison or maybe be expelled—she didn’t want to lose her friend, even if he didn’t consider himself her friend anymore, she didn’t want him to be taken away from her.

She grabbed Malfoy by his uniform tie and pulled him down so his eyes were level with hers. It wasn’t difficult because he wasn’t really that much taller than her. “You’re not going to tell your father anything,” She warned him, “Because I have a school directory and I know where you live, and if you say anything to your father then I can tell Tom where you live and send him to your house—how are you going to tell anyone when you’re all—“

“Okay, okay!” He whimpered, pulling away from her grip on his tie. “I won’t tell him I swear, just leave me alone—“ She let him go and he stumbled back toward the fence, still crying. When he was gone she turned and angrily glared at Tom, who was grinning at her.

“I told you I wanted to handle it.” She said.

“Yes,” He agreed, “And then you asked for my help.”

“No I didn’t,” She denied.

“This morning,” He argued, “You said you made it worse, so I helped.”

She marched up to him and wrenched his knife from his hands, “You call this helping?” She asked, holding the knife up between them. She noticed the blood that glistened on the blade. “Did you actually cut him?” She asked, horrified.

“Barely,” He told her, “I could have done worse, it was just a scare tactic—“

she wiped the blade on her tights where they were hidden under her skirt so no one would see it before closing the switchblade and thrusting it back into his hands, “You’re insane, Tom—“

“I was helping you,” He insisted, “I scared him, now he’ll leave you alone—“

“I don’t want you to hurt anyone who hurts me!” She argued. “That isn’t right!”

“Of course its right,” He scoffed, “It solves your problem, therefore it’s right.” She gaped at him, feeling a bit horrified, and he took her hand in her silence. “Let’s just go, before the teachers notice you’re gone—“ He started walking toward the fence but she pulled back on his hand, stomping her foot.

“No, Tom, I am angry with you!” 

“I won’t do it again.” He promised her.

“That’s a lie!” She objected.

“No, it isn’t.” He swore.

“Yes, it is!” She insisted, stomping her foot again.

“I won’t need to do it again,” He told her, “Malfoy will be terrified of you and I, so he’ll leave us alone, and by extension the others will, too. He doesn’t need to tell anyone anything for them to notice that he’s afraid.”

She was sullenly silent.

“Did you bring me a new book?” He asked suddenly. She was a bit surprised by the question, especially surprised by the gentle squeeze of her hand, as if he was desperately trying to appease her. She bit her lip and shook her head because she hadn’t. “That’s ok,” He told her, “You can bring it tomorrow.”

“You can get in very big trouble for having a knife, Tom, let alone using it on a student.” She said quietly.

“Not if no one finds out,” He told her, and the way he said it told her that he must’ve used it quite often before and not been caught, “Are you going to tell?” She shook her head, because of course she wouldn’t, “Exactly.” He said, “Because we’re friends.”

She paused. “Well,” She said slowly, “Friends listen to their friends.”

“Yes.” He agreed.

“So I want you to listen to me when I say,” She helps his hand as tight as she could, “Don’t do that ever again.” He frowned. “I mean it,” She pressed, “I don’t like it. It makes me upset.”

That seemed to win him over, because his frown evened out into s straight line and he nodded solemnly, tugging on her hand again and nodding his head in the direction of the fence. She went with him, and he helped her through the small hole in the fence.

When back in her classroom, she noticed Malfoy avoided her gaze at all costs. And when Goyle bumped into her desk and knocked her water bottle to the ground Malfoy hissed a horrified, “Goyle,” and the boy hesitated before leaning down and setting her water bottle back on her desk.

She hid a smile.

—

The next day was Friday. That meant recess with Harry and Ron and Tom, and it also marked the first day Malfoy had not done a single thing to antagonize her all day. She was practically dancing with joy when she met with Harry and Ron on the playground. 

“What’s got you so happy?” Harry asked as Ron stared at her in obvious confusion. 

“Malfoy is finally leaving me alone!” She chirped happily, watching him play with the other kids and stay far away from her. 

“I heard you punched him in the face,” Ron said, “That was wicked.”

She scowled for a moment, “Yeah,” She agreed, and was ready to tell them that the punch was not, in fact, what had swayed Malfoy away from her but she realized that if she said that she would need to explain why he had let her alone, so she kept her mouth shut. Instead, after a brief moment, she looked around the playground and said, “Do you want to meet my new friend?”

They were both pretty quiet for a moment. “New friend?” Harry echoed.

“Yes,” She smiled, “He’s in year six, his name is Tom—he’s kind of scary but he’s pretty nice when you get to know him—“

“Tom?” Ron echoed, “Tom who?”

She hesitated. She had never learned his last name. “I don’t know,” She admitted, “He’s tall, and he has dark hair, and he’s kind of scary, but—“

“Is it Tom Riddle? Harry asked. Hermione shrugged, because she honestly had no idea. Harry grimaced, “Um…Hermione—“

“Tom Riddle is fuckin’ mad, he is!” Ron interjected, “He goes to that orphanage that Billy Stubbs was at before he got adopted—that bloody psycho killed his rabbit, you know—?”

Hermione frowned, “Have you ever spoken to Tom?” She asked, a bit snootily. They were both quiet. 

“No,” Harry admitted.

“Well then you don’t really have any right to judge,” She lectured, but she made a mental note to ask Tom about the rabbit later. “You should meet him. He’s my friend, now.”

They both hesitated. Harry was the first to speak, “Alright,” He acquiesced. Hermione beamed, taking them both by the hand and walking toward that grassy part of the playground. Tom sat under the tree again and when he caught sight of her with harry and Ron in tow, he scowled.

“Tom,” She greeted with a wide smile, “These are my friends—“

“Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley,” He cut her off. “I know of them.”

The three boys sort of all glared at each other for a moment, the air tense. Hermione dropped her friends’ hands and plopped down next to Tom, and in attempt to ease the tension she said, “I brought you a book!” 

It worked momentarily, because Tom turned from her friends to look down at her. “Yeah?” 

She nodded, “I can give it to you after school.” He nodded, too, before turning a screwed eye back on the boys who were still standing. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Did you kill Billy Stubbs rabbit?” She suddenly asked, and all three heads snapped to face her. She shrugged innocently, “That’s why they’re hesitant.” She explained. Tom raised an eyebrow. “So, did you kill it?”

“No,” He said blankly. 

Something in the way he observed her when he said it set her on edge, lie he was probably lying to her, but for the sake of peace between her friends, she said, “See? He didn’t do it.”

Harry tentatively sat down, and Ron followed suit. Tom watched her with a strange expression on his face in silence, and then finally seemed to relax. He picked up her hand where it rested in her lap so he could hold it in his, and the way he stared Ron down while he did it told her that he was purely doing it to annoy the suspicious red-head who still stared at the older boy as if he was the devil incarnate.

Hermione let him hold her hand, because she liked the feeling when he did. 

They decided to play hide and seek, in the end, with a few other children they gathered who wanted to play. She could tell Tom didn’t want to play it, and if she was honest, she really didn’t either. So when he took her by the hand and led her to the hole in the fence at the back of the playground, she let him lead her through it, and they sat there, hidden among the weeds until the teachers called for the students to line up.

“Where the bloody hell were you two hidden?” Ron asked when she passed him to line up. She didn’t answer, just grinned, and he rolled his eyes as he went to his own line.

Malfoy still didn’t bother her for the rest of the day, and she gave Tom his book after school. He said he would see her Monday when her parents arrived.

She found herself excited for Monday, for once.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione's parents were not fond of the strange, sullen boy whom their daughter was so enthralled with.

When she first started prattling on about her new friend named Tom, they were both overjoyed that she finally found a friend, and not just a friendly classmate like that boy Harry Potter, or his friend Ronald Weasley who seemed to upset her more than anything else. Those boys were lovely, of course, in the sense that they made it so that she wasn’t completely isolated. But they had never heard her go on and on and on about anyone until she met Tom.

But then Tom turned out to be Tom Riddle, the ten-year-old orphan boy from the rough part of London. And they tried to see past his circumstances and trust their daughter’s judgement, but at the end of the day, Hermione was still a very young girl, and Tom Riddle was a very…peculiar boy.

They gave him the benefit of the doubt, of course. The Grangers never were and would never be a family who bred prejudice. But when Hermione asks them if her new friend Tom can start walking her home from school…

“It’s just that,” She said one evening at the dinner table, so excited about her question that she spoke through mouthfuls of mashed potatoes, “Now that Tom is in secondary school I don’t get to see him at recess, but if he can walk me home then we can talk about books and stuff every day!”

“Hermione, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Her mother scolded lightly, “And…we pick you up every day.”

“I know!” Hermione chirped, “And that’s fun. But I’m almost nine now, and…Tom’s my best friend, and he’s almost twelve, so…together, we’re practically twenty-one—which is old enough to drink alcohol in America, and—“

“Hermione, love,” Her father laughed, “That’s not quite how it works.”

“I know,” Hermione muttered, “I was joking.” Her mother and father shared a glance. “But I really do think that it would be nice if Tom could walk home with me.” She moved her food around on her plate with her fork, glancing between her parents’ expressions, which she noticed were exceedingly hesitant—and her dinner plate, “Lots of kids walk home every day. And Tom walks home to the orphanage every day anyway, so he has lots of experience, which means I would be very safe.” She nodded once, as if agreeing with her own argument, and took another mouthful of potatoes.

“Yes, we don’t doubt that Tom is very good at walking home,” Her mother said, “But perhaps…perhaps we could meet Tom first.”

Hermione gave her an odd look. “Why?” She asked.

“It’s just that,” Her father started, glancing at her mother before looking back at Hermione, who was watching them with a single raised eyebrow—they had no idea where she picked up that habit. “We would like to get to know your new friend before you start spending…too much time with him.”

“You didn’t ask to meet Harry and Ron.” She pointed out, her eyes narrowing as she looked between her parents. “Is it because of the rabbit?”

“Um,” Her mother floundered, looking to her husband to see if he had any idea what their daughter was talking about but his bewildered glance told her he didn’t, “What rabbit, sweetie?”

“Billy Stubbs rabbit,” Hermione said, “People think Tom killed it but he didn’t.”

There was a brief pause. “They think he killed a rabbit?” Her father clarified.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “But he didn’t do it.” Her mother breathed in slowly through her nose, turning her eyes toward her lap. Her father looked very confused. 

“Hermione,” Her father said lowly, as if he worried for her response to whatever he was about to say next, “Perhaps, for the time being, you should stay away from Tom until we can meet—“

“No!” Hermione objected, eyes wide, dropping her fork on the table, “No, he really didn’t kill that rabbit, I promise!” Her parents shared another glance and Hermione desperately wished she could know what they were thinking, “He’s good, I promise! He’s…very nice and…”

“Just until we meet him,” Her mother insisted, “And then we can see everything you see.”

Hermione did not want them to meet Tom Riddle. Because she knew if they met Tom they would see the scary, intimidating boy with a penchant for harming those he doesn’t like, and they would never let her see him again. But she nodded quietly, and didn’t argue any further.

She knew they only had her best interests in mind, but the last thing she wanted to do was abandon her best friend. And if they didn’t stop picking her up from school, then Tom couldn’t walk her home, and she would never see him anymore since he went on to secondary school and—

She just had to convince Tom how important it was that he be on his best behavior.

Her parents would not see everything she saw.

—

“I don’t want to meet your parents.” 

“Well it doesn’t matter what you want, Tom!” She snapped. Her parents had dropped her off early at school and she had trudged up the road to the secondary school where Tom was reading on the front steps to confront him about the situation, but in light of his flippancy she was starting to regret making the trip at all.

“It does matter what I want,” He argued evenly, “I don’t want to meet your parents, and I’m not going to.”

She took a deep, slow death through her nose—like her mother does to calm down—and released it, rubbing her eyes, “Why are you so difficult?” She asked.

“Why do you want me to meet your parents?” He countered.

“Because they don’t want us to be friends.” She answered simply. His head snapped up, his expression similar to the one he had worn when she caught him pinning Draco to the ground during recess.

“What?” He hissed.

“They don’t want us to be friends because you’re a scary orphan,” She told him, “And I tried to tell them you aren’t a scary orphan, but now they want to meet you, and then they’ll see that you are a scary orphan and they’ll never let me see you again—“

“It doesn’t matter,” He told her evenly, his tone soft even though his expression was anything but. “You don’t have to tell them that you spend time with me—“

“We don’t even go to the same school anymore, Tom!” She interrupted, “We can’t count on recess anymore—“

“So you can just sneak out,” He said, “We can find a place to meet and—“

“I’m not sneaking out of my house, Tom!” 

He rolled his eyes, sneering through his next words, “And I suppose you do everything your parents tell you?”

She ran her hands through her wild hair, feeling like she wanted to scream. “You may not understand because you have no parents,” She spat, “But I don’t want to go against mine.”

“Even if it means you don’t ever get to see me again?” He challenged.

“I just—“ She sighed, and tried a different tactic. She sat beside him, just a step lower than he was, and grabbed his hand, holding it between both of hers. “I need you to be good.”

He glared viciously at her. “Good?” he echoed with another sneer.

“You cannot be the scary orphan forever, Tom,” She scolded him. “You try to frighten and intimidate everyone you meet, but you can’t scare everyone. You need to learn how to be good.”

“But I don’t want to be—“

“Do you want to be my friend?” She interrupted. He was quiet. “You need to learn how to be good.”

He nodded, and she wasn’t sure if it was an agreement or a dismissal. But wither way she had to go to school, so she left him there sitting on the front steps of the school she wouldn’t attend for another three years, and she hoped he would take her advice.

He did.

—

When Tom Riddle arrived on her doorstep one Friday evening, Hermione was horrified for two reasons.

The first being the obvious reason—he was on her doorstep, mere meters away from her parents, and he had given her no heads up for his arrival. She was panicking about all the things that could go wrong—her parents would hate him and they would never allow her to see him again and her best friend would be taken from her, she was about to lose him, she was—

But then the second reason…he looked nice.

Tom Riddle’s usual appearance was disheveled and disquieting. He had dark hair that fell wildly about his head, he never brushed it, never styled it. Half the time it fell across his forehead and into his eyes in tangled waves. His clothes were always rumpled and they hung haphazardly off his lanky frame. He always looked a bit like an orphan, if she was honest. He always looked like he had no family to help him dress.

But the Tom that stood before her now was not the Tom that she saw every day. His hair was brushed and swept across his forehead in dark wisps. His clothes were clean and unwrinkled, his school uniform worn in the correct way for once. He looked very respectable.

She hated it.

“Who is this?” Her mother asked from behind her. Tom looked at her for a moment as if he expected her to introduce him before he turned his eyes to her mother, and he smiled—he smiled, wide and true, his teeth glistening in the light of the evening sun—“Hello, Mrs. Granger,” He greeted, “I’m Tom Riddle, Hermione said I could come over for Dinner today?”

It was quiet for a moment as he held his expression perfectly between confused expectation and apologetic hesitancy. Hermione didn’t know how to react.

“Oh,” Her mother floundered for a moment, “Well, she must’ve forgotten to mention, but…we certainly have enough food. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Tom, Hermione has told us so many good things about you.”

“Oh, if you weren’t expecting me, I can come back another time?” He offered politely.

“Nonsense!” Her mother said, “Come in, Tom, make yourself at home.”

He nodded and smiled again—what the hell was that smile?—and Hermione took him by the hand and pulled him inside. “Mum, can I show him my room?”

“Of course dear,” Her mother said, “I’ll call you two when dinner is ready.”

Hermione pulled him roughly by his hand up the stairs to her bedroom, running her hands over her face when they were in the safety of her room. He seemed entirely unaffected, sitting on her bed carefully, experimentally, and examining her bookshelf with a shrewd eye. 

“What are you doing, Tom?” She demanded. He ignored her.

“I expected more books,” He commented, bouncing lightly on her bed and glancing around, “And less stuffed animals.”

“I’m sorry my room hasn’t met your expectations,” She spat.

“Forgiven.” He commented lightly.

“Tom,” She seethed, “What are you doing?”

“I’m being good,” He told her, hopping off her bed to approach her bookshelf and examine the spines of her books, “Like you asked me to.” She crouched beside him, watching his expression while he traced his fingers over her books, “If you need your parents to like me then I will make them like me.”

“But Tom—“ 

“You’ve never shared this book with me before,” He commented, pulling out one of the stories her mother used to read to her, “Why not?” She frowned.

“I don’t know,” She admitted, “It’s Lemony Snicket. It’s fiction. I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”

“I might,” He admitted, turning the book over to read the back. She examined the shine of his hair, the perfect curl across his forehead. She didn’t like it. She wanted her Tom back, not this strange imitation.

“I don’t like this.” She admitted. He snapped his head toward her, his brows pulled together in confusion.

“But I’m doing as you asked,” He argued.

“I know, but—“

“Kids!” She heard her mother call, “Dinner is ready!” Hermione began to stand, but Tom grabbed her hand before she could. His gaze was heavy, angry. 

“I’m doing as you asked.” He repeated. She frowned, tugging on his hand so that he would follow her downstairs. He did so without another word, and she turned back to watch his expression shift from the calm, somewhat angry downturn of his lips (the one that seemed ever-present) into a pleasant half-smile. 

And she hated it.

“So, Tom,” Her father greeted as they all took their seats at the table, gesturing to his uniform that he still wore, “Did you come straight from school?”

“I stayed a bit late today to study,” He informed them, cutting into his food, “This looks delicious, thank you.” Hermione bit her lip to stop herself from scowling. How was he being so pleasant? How did this suddenly come so easily to him?

“A bit late?” Her father laughed, “It’s nearly seven!”

Tom smiled amicably, and Hermione tried to examine his expression for any chinks or abnormalities but apparently smiling came as easily to him as frowning. She found herself growing increasingly frustrated as she watched him—and she was glad, of course, because if he continued to act this way then her parents would never object to her friendship with him. She was happy because this meant that there would be nothing standing in the way of her time with Tom. But she was annoyed because this—whoever this boy was sitting at her dinner table—this wasn’t her Tom. This was some…creepy imposter with a sweet, fake smile.

“Hermione said she wanted the two of you to start walking home together?” Her mother prompted.

“Oh, yeah,” Tom started unsurely, “Well, it’s just that…I know you walk her home, but I thought maybe her and I could spend time together after school? It’s just that…” He avoided eye contact, stared demurely down at his plate as he spoke, “I don’t have any other friends.” Her eyes widened for a moment but she forced her expression into something calm. He was playing the sympathy card. “On account of my being an orphan and all, so…”

“It must be so hard,” Her mother said quietly, “You seem like such a strong boy.” 

“Um, Mum?” Hermione interrupted. 

“Yes, darling?” Her mother replied.

“Um, I think that science show is on, and—“ 

“Oh sure!” Her mother beamed, “You two can take your dinner into the living room if you like—“ Hermione was up with her plate before she even finished speaking, urging Tom to follow her into the other room. He gave her an odd look, but otherwise stood with her.

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Granger, Mr. Granger,” He said, before taking his plate and following Hermione into the other room. She turned the tv on and turned the volume up loud, the man in his white coat speaking on the television. Hermione set her food on the table and tried to pull it closer to the TV but it was too heavy.

“Help me,” She asked. Tom frowned but did as she asked, setting his plate down and helping her push the table. 

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“I’m moving the table,” She grunted. Once the table was close enough she sat down in front of her plate and started watching the science program.

“No,” Tom said, sitting next to her and fixing his gaze on her instead of on the television program. “I was being good, I was making them like me—“

“Yes, and now they like you, so now you’ve done enough, and you can stop.” She snapped, taking a large bite of her food. He examined her shrewdly at her side, sitting very close to her so he could closely read her expression, but she kept her eyes trained on the television.

“You’re angry,” He observed. She didn’t say anything but she did shake her head back and forth. “Yes, you are.” He pressed.

“I just don’t like you when you act like…not you,” She admitted. “It’s creepy and you’re very good at it and your hair looks…” She hesitated, “Stupid.”

He snorted. “Stupid?” He echoed.

“Yes.” She agreed.

He was smiling again, but this time it wasn’t that strange, empty smile that he offered her parents. It was that slightly mocking, cruel smile that he always sported. She liked that one better. She knew that one better.

“I need to be back at the orphanage before dark,” He said.

“Oh,” she nodded, “Okay, did you want to borrow that book?”

“Yes,” He said evenly. She nodded, hurried upstairs to retrieve the book for him, and then hurried back down the stairs to find him already in the kitchen, their plates stacked on top of one another as her mother took them from his hands. She didn’t want to see his big, fat, stupid, fake smile so she hurried in and grabbed his hand, offering flippant excuses to her mum as she pulled him toward the front door. He was grinning when she pulled him outside, an honest grin, and he said, “She really likes me.” As if it was a joke.

“Here’s your book,” she said, thrusting it into his hands. 

“You cannot be angry at me,” He told her, grasping her hands when she tried to pull them back from the book, “Not when I did exactly as you asked.”

“Which you never do.” She admitted.

“Exactly,” He grinned. She wasn’t sure why he was so happy about this all—it wasn’t giddiness over their success exactly, it seemed more like he was just happy that he had won, that he had fooled them. She frowned, but his smile didn’t falter. “Will I see you Monday?” He asked.

“Probably,” She admitted.

He left, and her parents gushed over what a smart, sweet boy he was, and how lucky he was to have Hermione as a friend. And of course she could walk with him after school, and of course he was welcome in their house any time. But Hermione had already decided she liked Tom much better when they were on their own, and she didn’t want him at her house where he would be wearing all those fake smiles. She thinks that it was probably a bit selfish, but in light of Tom’s newfound charisma, she found she didn’t really want to share him with anyone.

Monday came, and when she met Tom outside her school in the afternoon among hoards of students walking home. He stood looking just as he had on Friday night, his hair perfectly swept to the side, his uniform clean and pressed. She scowled when she saw him looking like a perfect porcelain doll, the only familiar thing about him being his posture, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped forward as he waited for her.

It becomes a routine. 

“You taught me something, you know.” He tells her one Saturday at the park. They’re lounging at the park, soaking up the sunshine for as long as London offers it to him. Harry and Ron, who had fallen victim to his recent charms—He’s not that bad a bloke, you know?—had run off to join some other boys in a game of football and Tom stayed with her. She was happy, in a way, that she could finally spend time with all of her fiends without worry of Ron and Tom getting into a fight, but she couldn’t stand those stupid fake smiles and strange, neutral comments he always made. It was nothing like her Tom, the snarky, sullen boy who would insult you purely to be contrary.

“Did I?” She asked, examining the stupid perfect curl of his hair.

“You taught me the importance of self-presentation” He said, staring up at the sky and watching the clouds pass, “You were right. I’ll only ever be the poor, orphan boy unless I prove them wrong.” She was quiet, examining the way the sun fell upon his hair and made it shine red, and he looked so pretty and normal and relaxed. “But since I’ve started being…” He paused before he used the term, as if he didn’t quite agree with it but felt it fit the best regardless, “Good, people have been treating me differently.”

“But people never treated you badly,” She pointed out, “Because you’re scary.” She waited to hear him say it wasn’t necessary anymore, that his violence would no longer be called for, that she would no longer have to worry about him being caught with a knife and thrown out of school or taken to juvenile hall. But instead he laughed, loudly, freely, without restraint and without an inch of kindness. It was a bit mad.

“That’s what makes this so great,” He said through his laughter. “The other day I hung Harvey out the second story window by his ankles, and when he went to tell the headmistress after, she—“ He laughed again, this time victoriously, “She said—“ The pitch of his voice went higher in a mockery of Mrs. Cole’s tone, “Tom has been such a good boy lately, I think you may be trying to sully his reputation again—“ She clasped her hand over his mouth to stop him and she felt him grinning against her palm.

“Stop it,” She scolded him, “You hung him from a window?” He shrugged, and she could see the malicious mirth in his eyes. She sighed irritably and reached up to muss his hair, and his smile immediately fell from his face. 

“Hey!” He reared back, away form her hands, “What are you—“

“There,” She said proudly, smiling at the state of his hair, “I hate your stupid new hair and your stupid new…” She gestured vaguely to all of him.

“What do you mean?” He questioned, almost petulantly, “It was your idea.”

“I know,” She said defensively, and pouting she continued, “You’re very good at it.”

“I know.” He echoed.

“But I like you better this way,” She admitted. He was fully frowning now, examining her at his side, and she could practically see the multitude of thoughts running through his head and she wished she could hear them, too. He rarely held himself back from saying exactly what he thought, but in moments like this he didn’t let her know anything that he was thinking. She thinks maybe when he’s surprised he does it, or when he’s confused. He never likes to admit something he doesn’t know.

After a long moment of silence, he finally answers, but all he offers is a quiet, “I know” in light of her admission. But he hadn’t reached up to fix his hair, and he wasn’t wearing one of those fake smiles now that it was just the two of them. And she knew that she was being a bit silly—she had told him he needed to be good, but she just hadn’t expected him to be so talented at pretending.

In the end she decided that it probably didn’t matter, anyway. Whoever Tom pretended to be to everyone else was irrelevant to her as long as when he was with her, he stopped. And if her Tom was only going to show his face when they were alone, she could deal with that, too. So with that decision, she took his hand in hers and laid back to watch the clouds pass by with him. She thinks she saw out of the corner of her eye him examine her for a moment longer before looking upwards as well.

“Did you like the book?” She asked suddenly.

“It was…interesting,” He admitted. She grinned.

“That means you liked it,” She translated. “I can lend you the next book if you want?” He didn’t answer, but he did turn his head back to look at her, his eyes jumped between hers as if he was trying to read her mind, too.

But she didn’t understand what he was looking for, because she always told him everything.

He watched her for a moment longer before looking back at the sky. “Yeah.” He agreed. “I’d like that.” He said it like he had decided upon something, like he had some realization that she wasn't privy to because he kept it in his mind. She wanted to ask him what he had discovered, what he was thinking about, what the reason was for the serene expression on his face. 

But she felt strange asking such questions, so she watched the clouds and decided she would find out sooner or later. If there was one thing she knew about her best friend, it was that there were some things you couldn’t ask. You just had to figure them out for yourself.

But she would figure it out later. For now, cloud watching sounded fun.


	3. Chapter 3

She’s not sure when it happened exactly. She doesn’t know when her feelings changed. But suddenly when she looks at him she notices her heart races and she feels simultaneously overwhelmed and at ease, like she wants to flee but she also wants him to hold her. And she knows—she knows—she’s only thirteen and she doesn’t know what love is and what she feels is most likely fleeting and young, but—

She’s in love with Ron Weasley, she’s sure of it.

She’s also sure that he is not at all in love with her.

“Mione—“ He calls through a mouthful of food, and she grimaces but simultaneously tunes in to what he has to say, “What’s that weird look on your face for?”

“Nothing, Ron,” She mutters, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. She glances around the crowded cafe and wondering where Harry was. He was already 10 minutes late.

“Is Riddle not coming today?” He asked through another mouthful of his sandwich.

“He has work,” She said, taking a sip of her drink and glancing at the door again. In theory, being alone with the boy you fancy should be a good thing, but to be honest it just made Hermione feel slightly panicked. What was she supposed to do? Should she flirt? How does one even flirt?

“Is he ever not working?” He asked.

“Well, considering he’s an orphan, he needs the money—“ Ron choked on his croissant and she remembered that the topic of Tom’s parents—or lack thereof—was not quite as comfortable a topic of conversation for other people as it was for her and Tom. Ever since she was a child—an insensitive and hard-headed child, to be fair—and had breeched the subject of his lack of family with little-to-no sympathy, he seemed to favor the approach, so she stuck with it. It was easy, to be honest. If he didn’t want her to pity him then she certainly wouldn’t, and it made it easier to call him out on stupid bullshit when it came to his opinions of family—especially his opinions on whether or not she should listen to what her parents have to say.

But, breeching that topic in public usually made people uncomfortable, so she would need to stop. 

“Christ,” Ron heaved after washing down the croissant lodged in his throat with gulps of water, and he looked as if he was ready to say something else but Hermione didn’t let him finish.

“I mean—he, um, he likes working—“ She lied, because she knew Tom hated his job and treated it purely as a means to an end, “That’s why he works so much he finds it…rewarding.” 

Ron snorted, gesturing to her own muffin—the one he had bought for her, because she hadn’t brought any money—and with his mouth still full of his own food he asked “Are you going to finish that?” She shook her head, pushing it toward him. How he could eat so much and still be so lithe she had no idea. “Well, I know I’m gonna hate it when I get a job,” He informed her, “Unless I can be a professional footballer, now that would be—“

“You’d lose every bleedin’ game if you were a professional footballer,” A voice from behind Hermione laughed.

“Harry!” She greeted excitedly, twisting in her seat to see him as he set his hand on her shoulder in greeting and took the seat beside her across from Ron, who was staring the boy down with narrowed eyes.

“I’m better than you,” He said, and Harry laughed loudly, reaching across to take the muffin that Ron had only just taken from Hermione and take a huge bite out of it.

“In your dreams, Weasley,” He spoke through a mouthful.

“Alright, tough guy,” Ron said, snatching his muffin back, “Twenty quid says I can win in a—“

“No.” Hermione cut in sternly, “We are not spending the day playing football, for God’s sake—“

“Hermione Granger?” A shrill voice called out, catching the three of them off guard as they all twisted in their seats to seek out the source. Hermione was mildly shocked to see Lavender Brown quickly approaching their table. Well, mildly shocked was an understatement, actually. She couldn’t even speak as Lavender approached the table and sat down beside Ron, smiling at Hermione as if they were good friends and—well, they weren’t exactly not friends, they spoke sometimes in history class but they never really, well— “Oh my God, so weird running into you here!”

They were there practically every Saturday, so she wasn’t sure why it was strange.

“Um, hi Lavender—“ She started quietly, a bit shocked by the girl’s actions, wondering why the hell she was sitting there smiling as if they were close—

“Are you going to introduce me?” She asked. 

“Uh, yeah—Harry, Ron, this is Lavender,” The girl in question smiled pleasantly at the two older boys, “She’s in my year, we’re—um—acquaintances.” Lavender laughed.

“Oh, we’re classmates,” Lavender said, “I know we don’t talk much, Hermione,” She continued with a bit of a pout, “It’s just, you’re so smart, and sometimes I think I might be annoying you.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say, because Lavender often did annoy her.

Harry laughed, however, always at ease with meeting new people, and said, “Yeah, our Hermione isn’t exactly a people person—“

“Aw!” Lavender cooed, “Our Hermione, that’s so sweet.”

“Lavender,” Hermione cut in, attempting to channel some of Tom’s fake charisma, but she had never been good at it like he was, so what was meant to sound pleasantly inquisitive ended up sounding a bit snappish, “Did you need something?”

Lavender hesitated, glancing between the trio before smiling unsurely, “Oh, well, I just thought I would say hello, but I can leave if—“ She started to stand, and Hermione didn’t really want to be responsible for making Lavender fell unwelcome (even if she sort of was unwelcome) so she glanced between her two friends.

“Well, you can stay if the boys are alright with it,” She said, hoping one of them would say no.

Ron shrugged, “Yeah, she can stay.” He said. Hermione just barely stopped herself from scowling, but when Lavender beamed and sat beside Ron again and then placed her hand on his arm and leaned toward him and then Lavender’s interest in Hermione suddenly made sense—

She couldn’t keep her scowl from her face, then.

“I see you play football after school all the time,” Lavender admitted, “You’re so good. You could go pro.”

Ron was chuffed, obviously, and cast a proud glance at Harry who looked to be holding back a laugh, “See?” Ron said, “I told you.” Lavender laughed loudly at his side, as if he told a hysterical joke, which was ludicrous because Ron’s jokes were never funny. By this point, Hermione’s expression had melted into one of unrestrained disgust, and as focused as she was on Lavender and Ron, she didn’t see that Harry noticed.

“Uh—“ He started awkwardly, glancing between Hermione and Ron twice before gently seizing her by the arm and lifting her from the seat, “Hermione, come with me to get food, I’ll buy you something.”

“Ron already bought me—“ She started.

“Well, I feel like spoiling you,” He insisted, and she didn’t have any reason to distrust Harry so she allowed him to guide her to the line forming at the check out where an array of pastries sat in a class cabinet without further argument. She did, however, glance back at Lavender and Ron to see Lavender laughing again.

“He’s not that funny,” She muttered under her breath, but it seemed Harry heard it.

“You know,” He said slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he really wanted to say anything but decided to anyway, “Ron isn’t going to like, date Lavender or anything, she’s thirteen—“

“I’m thirteen,” Hermione argued, but judging by the look on Harry’s face—as if he had been proven right but hadn’t wanted to be—she decided she had probably said the wrong thing.

“Oh, come one,” He muttered to himself, “Ron?”

She hesitated, “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about—“

“Mione,” He cut her off, “Come on, I can tell.” She was silent, shoving her hands in the pockets of her skirt and attempting to ignore him. “I mean, I get it, I guess, but Ron?”

“Why is it so surprising?” She asked, mildly offended on behalf of the boy she fancied. Harry frowned thoughtfully.

“I just didn’t think…” He paused, and seemed to rethink his words for a moment. In the end he offered her a lopsided smile and joked, “I didn’t think anyone would ever fancy Ron, to be honest.”

“Harry you’re horrible,” She muttered, not in the mood for joking. Her cheeks burned, the thought that Harry had noticed sparked the fear that maybe Ron noticed, and while she thought she should probably be happy that he knows, she felt mostly terrified. She didn’t want him to know.

“Do my ears deceive me?” A voice drawled behind them, and if Hermione’s cheeks were burning before they were certainly on fire now. Draco Malfoy stood behind them in line, a big fat smirk on his face. “Granger fancies Weasley? Oh this is just—“

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Hermione spat, but that only caused Malfoy’s smirk to widen.

“Aw,” She thinks he was trying to coo, to be condescending, but he was laughing too much to commit to his usual sarcasm. Somehow the laughter made it all even more humiliating, “Are you embarrassed?” His lips had stretched into a very cruel smile, “Who wouldn’t be? I mean, Weasley?”

“Hey,” Harry cut in, catching the front of Malfoy’s shit in his fist, “Watch your mouth, ferret,” He released him as quickly as he had grabbed him, just issuing a warning. Harry wasn’t necessarily the type to rush into physical violence unless he was sufficiently insulted, unlike Ron, who fought everyone all the time. 

“Back off, Potty,” Malfoy spat, “I may be younger than you but that doesn’t mean I can’t—“

“Leave us alone, Malfoy,” Hermione interjected sternly, “Before I get really upset.” She stressed the last word, and he seemed to understand her meaning immediately. He paled slightly, sneering at her as viciously as he could while also turning on his heel and fleeing the scene. She had taken to using Tom Riddle as a threat ever since she realized how effectively it worked, so any reference to emotional distress (that Tom would inevitably find out about) always sent Malfoy running for the hills.

Harry didn’t get the reference. “I still think it’s hilarious that he’s so scared of you,” He told her. She didn’t correct him, just stared silently at her feet, wishing she could sink into the floor. “Listen, Mione, I’m not gonna tell Ron—“

“I know you won’t.” She said.

“Because you’re my friend, too,” He assured her.

“I know I am.” She muttered.

“And…” He hesitated, casting a quick glance at the cashier who was finishing serving the customer just ahead of them in line, “I mean…does Riddle know?”

“I haven’y really told anyone,” She admitted, “And I’m not certain Tom would care, he’s pretty uninterested in…dating and—why do you ask?”

“Well, I don’t know, I just kind of figured—Oh, hi—“ He turned to the cashier who had turned her attention to him in line, pointing to something in the glass cabinet and reaching in his pockets for money. Hermione frowned, wondering what Tom had to do with anything, but then she supposed—given how much Tom always hated Ron—he might not exactly approve of her newfound affection for the boy.

Not that it was any of his business, anyway.

“Well anyway,” Harry said, turning away from the cashier with his food in his arms, handing her a slice of cake that she hadn’t asked for but accepted nonetheless, “Don’t worry about Lavender. We’ll make up some reason for us to leave without her.”

Hermione shrugged, trying to pretend that she wasn’t bothered either way. Harry saw right through her feigned nonchalance and snorted out a laugh, walking ahead of her towards the table as she lagged behind. 

She hated that the one person who she had ever told of her (frankly, embarrassing) unrequited love looked upon the situation as if it was a joke. She had never spoken to anyone else who dealt with the issue of loving someone they couldn’t have—she didn’t have any female friends (or friends in general, to be honest) to talk about this with—but she thinks if she knew someone who felt the way she did she would not find it funny. She would probably feel sorry for them, maybe a bit embarrassed on their behalf, maybe she would try to comfort them with some abstract motivational quote or something, but she certainly wouldn’t laugh.

Still, she figured Harry’s reaction would be better than Tom’s. She had been under exaggerating when she said Tom wouldn’t care. She was actually entirely certain that he would care, at least because it’s Ron. Her best friend was possessive enough when it came to her company as it was (she had been friends with him for years, so she wasn’t blind to his imperfections) she couldn’t imagine how he would react if he found out she actually liked someone more than him.

And she didn’t, exactly. She had never considered her fancy for Ron as liking him more than her best friend, it was just different. Time spent with Ron was sort of exhilarating in its discomfort, feeling like her stomach will twist itself into oblivion, moments with him were exciting and head-rushing and breathtaking in their unpredictability, whereas moments with Tom were something more like…

Well, she supposed Tom was unpredictable as well. But it was different. Tom was as familiar to her as her own parents, he looked after her and looked out for her and she tried to look out for him, too, but in a way that was much more subtle so that he couldn’t notice. He was her best friend, her family, so she could never love anyone more than him, but love—as she was discovering—came in infinite forms. And the way she loved Ron—

Well, Tom wouldn’t see it that way at all, so she didn’t know why she was wasting thought on it. 

“Hermione?” Harry called. He had stopped halfway to the table to turn back and see her standing still. “Alright?”

She nodded and followed him.

She just wouldn’t tell Tom. Harry seemed relatively confident that Ron would never be interested, even if he hadn’t explicitly said so, so there was no reason that Tom ever had to know.

But she forgot that Malfoy knew, too

—

“The book cost eighty pounds?” She gaped at Tom from across the lunch table. Mondays they shared a lunch hour, and they had a designated table in the corner of the cafeteria where the met while they ate. It was rare that she could spend much time with him outside of school—given all the hours that he worked—so she enjoyed the time they had to talk during lunch periods. He nodded at her question, his lips turned down in a grimace.

“About as much as I make in a week if Burke gives me the hours,” He muttered.

“And is it sold anywhere cheaper?” She asked.

“If it was would I be considering spending an entire weeks pay?” He asked sardonically, raising single eyebrow. She gave him a look, nonverbally communicating that she did not care for his sarcasm, but after a moment rolled her eyes and ignored his attitude. 

“Well,” She said lightly, “Perhaps a birthday present?” He eyed her for a moment, his lips curling into a smirk.

“You’ll buy me an eighty pound book for my birthday?” He prompted.

“Not me,” She said, feigning a look of confusion, shaking her head as she suggested, “Perhaps one of your other friends?” She paused a moment, watched his teeth catch his lower lip as he regarded her, still smirking in amusement. She pursed her lips, feigning embarrassment when she said, “Oh, wait…” 

He didn’t laugh, but she could see that he wanted to. He didn’t often laugh in general, but he especially never laughed when they were in public—unless she counted those horrid fake laughs he offered to the other students, but she didn’t count those at all. She grinned when he didn’t say anything, and condescendingly she said, “I was making a joke about your lack of friends,” she explained, wiping her smile off her face so she could pretend to be serious, “Your complete lack of humor might’ve inhibited your understanding.” 

He did laugh then, or as close to a laugh as she would get, more like a snort or a brief exhalation than anything else. His eyes slid to the side to focus somewhere over her shoulder—he often did that, always seeming to be glancing around the two of them as if he was trying to simultaneously be aware of everyone else in the room. She thinks it might be habit from when they were children, before he started wearing his mask when he used to pick fights with anyone who disturbed her.

Well, picked fights wasn’t quite the right word, but she also hesitated to use to word torture considering he was 10 at the time. 

All the same, when his eyes slid from hers to gaze around the cafeteria, his smirk immediately fell from his face. He was no stranger to sudden mood swings, but she knew there was always a reason when his mood did change, so she turned and glanced over her shoulder to see the source of his sudden anger. And he was angry—the quiet sort of anger he got whenever he was in public, the kind he hid behind slick smiles and clever comebacks. 

She understood his anger momentarily, because Draco Malfoy had his eyes fixed on the pair of them. When she turned her head and met his eyes he stood, and appeared to be walking toward them. “Shit,” She muttered under her breath. 

“He’s getting bold,” Tom murmured, watching the pale boy make his way across the room. Hermione’s eyes lifted to meet her friend’s, but he was staring down the fast approaching boy almost like a lion watching its prey. She wished he didn’t look so excited.

“He’s fine, Tom,” She stressed. He seemed to ignore her. “He’s absolutely harmless, all bark and no bite.”

“Perhaps he needs a muzzle,” He commented darkly. She tried to give him a meaningful look—a plea to behave—but he was determinedly watching Malfoy. When the blonde finally approached their table, Tom’s face melted into a friendly smile, straightening from where he was haunched over the table to be nearer to her and squaring his shoulders. “Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy,” He greeted pleasantly. 

Malfoy offered him a look mixed with haughtiness and resigned terror as he greeted, “Riddle,” barely pleasantly, before turning his icy eyes on Hermione and greeting with far less reservations, “Granger.”

“Malfoy.” She greeted, just as venomous, wondering what reason he could possibly have to approach them. He never approached her when Tom was present. Ever. “What do you want?”

“Not sitting with Weasel and Potty then, Granger?” He asked amicably, ignoring her question. Hermione narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out what he was getting at. “But then,” He continued, leaning on the table to smirk victoriously at her, “Lavender Brown seems to have taken your place quite easily.” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow—and yes, she knew she got that from Tom, but it was an effective expression—and asked, “And what makes you so terribly concerned?”

“Oh, I’m not the one who should be concerned,” He drawled, smiling in a way she was sure was supposed to be cruel, but compared to the smiles she had seen on Tom, Malfoy’s was practically angelic, “It seems your precious little Weasel is quite fond of Brown, now,” He said. 

Suddenly, Hermione realized exactly what Malfoy was trying to do, and she felt her heart seized by blind panic. She didn’t show it on her face, just clenched her jaw and glanced briefly to Tom to see him observing Malfoy calmly, and then she looked back at Malfoy. “Tragic.” She said blandly, unsure of what else to say.

“I’d just hate,” He drawled, setting his hand upon his heart in an overdramatic display of false sympathy, “to see your heart broken when he inevitably chooses her over you, Granger,” 

“Thanks,” She said dryly, wishing he would leave.

“I mean, after hearing how much you love—“

“If I’m not mistaken, Malfoy,” She cut him off calmly, trying to turn the conversation on him, “You seem much more distraught over who Ronald spends his time with than I am.” Malfoy glowered at her. “I understand unrequited love can be horrid, but do try to make yourself less obvious.”

“You haven’t told him then?” He asked, not gesturing to Tom (likely out of fear) but still getting his message across. Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Isn’t he supposed to be you best friend, or—?”

“That’s cute,” She interrupted, “Pretending you understand how friendship works, when we all know the only reason anyone ever hangs out with you is because of your father’s money.”

“Shut up, Granger,” He spat, but made no further comment.

“Now tuck your tail between your legs and hurry back to your fake friends,” She ordered, “Before I get upset.” Malfoy’s eyes widened and shifted from hers to stare at Tom for a second, before meeting her steadfast gaze again. His mouth twisted into something close to a sneer, muffled by terror, before he turned and did exactly as she said. She allowed herself a brief, self-satisfied smile and when she turned back to Tom his eyes were fixed disconcertingly on her.

“You use me as a threat?” He asked, obviously understanding from Malfoy’s panicked gaze that she had been referring to Tom before the boy fled. Hermione hesitated, fidgeting in her seat.

“It’s effective,” She muttered. She thinks he looked almost pleased, but the look was gone from his eyes as quick as it came.

“What was he talking about?” He asked her.

Unwillingly, she drew a deep breath in threw her nose. She knew that he knew exactly what that meant—that she was anxious and uncomfortable—but she still looked down at her plate of food and blatantly lied when she said, “I never know what that boy is going on about—“

“Don’t lie to me.” He said evenly, his voice low and borderline threatening. She didn’t like the tone, didn’t like the way he thought he could intimidate her into telling the truth, so she lifted her eyes from her plate and glared at him.

“It isn’t a big deal, Tom,” She deflected, her tone as even as his. He was wearing his mask he always wore when something displeased him, his mouth in a straight line and his brow twitching. His eyes were like fire.

“Then why are you lying?” He pressed. She took in another deep breath through her nose, rolling her eyes and glancing around the cafeteria instead of meeting his eyes.

“Because it’s—embarrassing, and —honestly—it’s unimportant—“ 

“Hermione,” He murmured dangerously. She scowled at him, knowing where that tone always led and feeling honestly offended that he was using it on her.

“I just—Malfoy overheard my conversation with Harry on Saturday and he’s trying to rile me up—“

“About?” Tom cut in. Hermione’s brow furrowed.

“What?” She asked, not expecting him to interrupt her.

“What was the conversation about?” He bit out. He pushed his tray aside so that he could rest his elbows on the table, leaning forward. She kept her hands in her lap, glaring at him.

“You’re angry,” She surmised. He sighed irritably, “Why on earth are you—“

“Because you’re hiding something from me.” He told her evenly, honestly, “You never hide from me.”

“That’s not true,” She blindly denied.

“It is.” He insisted, and she supposed he was probably right. There was very little the two of them hid from each other at all, but especially where Hermione was concerned. She just didn’t see the point, in most cases, of hiding anything from him. She always wanted him to know, wanted his opinion and his advice even if she had no intention of taking it. 

But this was slightly different.

Sighing, allowing her eyes to fall around the room, not looking at anything in particular, just avoiding his eyes, she muttered, “He overheard me tell Harry that I fancy Ron Weasley.”

Tom was deathly quiet. 

“I didn’t tell Harry, exactly,” She added, feeling as if she was admitting to confiding in someone other than Tom, which felt wrong. “He just found out, and Malfoy heard, and of course he has to say something about it.” He only stared, and because he wasn’t speaking, she was prompted to bring her eyes back to his to try to read his reaction. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you would be uncomfortable—“

“Uncomfortable?” He echoed quietly. 

“Well—“ She sputtered, “Are you?”

He hesitated. “No.” He said.

“Angry?” She surmised.

“Yes.”

Frowning, she clarified, “Angry because I didn’t tell you or angry because its Ronald?”

She noticed his jaw twitch, his eyes moving in a way that suggested he was ready to look away but wouldn’t allow himself. “Both.” He admitted.

She sighed, casting her eyes to the ceiling and setting her elbows on the table as well so that she could press her hands over her face. “Not that it’s any of your business,” She said bitingly, “Because contrary to what you may think, you cannot decide who is and isn’t good enough for me—“

“It isn’t a matter of my decision,” He argued quietly, viciously, “It is a matter of fact.”

“I decide for myself,” She stressed as if he hadn’t spoken, “Who is good enough for me. I like Ronald.” He glared at her and said nothing. “And this is why I didn’t tell you, Tom, I knew you would act like a child—“

“You don’t like him,” He said, as if he was reading her, as if he was trying to explain it to her, as if she didn’t understand what she felt, “You’ve never been able to reconcile yourself with the fact that he disliked you, so now you’ve convinced yourself that the discomfort you feel with him is fancy—“

“How dare you—“ She snapped, “For your information, I’m in love with—“ His hand snapped up to wrap around her wrist to cut her off.

“Do not—“ He seethed, but cut himself off. She glared viciously at him.

“I’m going to go sit with Ron—who, apparently, dislikes me—“ She spat sneering in a way she was certain would make even Malfoy proud, “I’m willing to speak with you when you get over yourself—“ She went to stand, but he pulled her arm further across the table, stopping her from standing to leave. His grip was tight enough to bruise.

She doesn’t know what he was going to say, because before he can say anything she snaps, “I am your friend, Tom,” His grip immediately loosens, as if the comment reminded him who she was, reminded him that he never touched her with any intent to harm before, “Not your dog.”

He was silent, but his anger had not faded. 

“And I can love who I choose,” She finishes, snatching her arm away and standing from the table and picking up her tray, leaving without a word. He doesn’t go after her—he couldn’t do so without causing a scene, which he would never do unless absolutely necessary—so she dumps her tray in the bin on the way to Harry and Ron. And Malfoy was right, Lavender sat there as well, but Hermione wasn’t about to storm out of the cafeteria where Tom could follow her and corner her somewhere and try to exercise some authority over her the he had no right—

She plopped down in the seat beside Harry, who jumped at her arrival and stopped mid-greeting when he saw her sour face. “Whoa,” He laughed unsurely, “Are you—“

“Fine.” She said shortly. He stared at her silently, so she elaborated, “Tom and I had a fight.”

“About what?” Ron gaped, “You two never fight!”

That was entirely incorrect, but she didn’t say anything, just shrugged her shoulders and refused to speak. Neither of them press her, especially because Lavender continued prattling on about something entirely irrelevant and sufficiently distracts her two friends from her anger.

She knows she probably has no right to be angry—especially because she has no claim over Ron at all—but after Malfoy’s commentary and Tom’s complete overreaction, she had basically no filter for her anger. Listening to Lavender chat to Ron, obviously flirting, and the way Ron listened and responded—

She had no right to be jealous, no right to be angry, but the feelings remained and bubbled in her gut and spilled out her throat when she snapped—“Lavender,” Said girl turned to her with a shocked expression, “Do you have nothing better to do than waste your time flirting with a boy who would sooner babysit you than date you?” Lavender looked appalled, Ron’s face went bright red—as if he hadn’t even realized that was Lavender’s intention—and Harry choked on his lunch. “You are thirteen years old, have some self respect.”

It was very quiet amongst the four of them. Hermione knew what she said was uncalled for, knew that it was entirely due to her fight with Tom that she felt so furious, but—Harry and Ron were her friends. Lavender had no right to push her way into Hermione’s friend group and try to steal Ron away from her, even if Hermione didn’t have feelings for him, Lavender could change everything, she could—

She wonders, briefly, if that was why Tom was angry, if he felt Ron was going to change everything. She could relate, if that was the way he felt, but he still had no right to insult her, to say her feelings weren’t real, to be angry with her. She was still very angry with him.

But she might, sort of, kind of understand.

At any rate, her friends and Lavender are still staring at her in shock, so she left. She glanced at her and Tom’s spot, wondering if he was still there, if he would see her and follow after her. But he’s already long gone.

She was so fed up with love.

—

Tom is waiting outside for her after school. He always did, but after their disagreement at lunch, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he ditched her that day. She was happy he didn’t, though. For the past few years he had always walked her home, even after he got a job, he would make time to walk with her before he had to go. 

Today was a bit less comfortable, but all the same, she was happy to see him. She had a lot to get off her mind.

“First of all,” She said as soon as she was close enough for him to hear. He raised a single eyebrow, as if he had expected her to lecture him but had been hoping she would keep her mouth shut for at least the first few minutes, “You don’t get to tell me how I feel. I know how I feel better than you do.”

“Doubtful.” He muttered. She ignored him.

“Second,” She continued primly, wanting to get through everything she had rehearsed in her head before he could anger her and send her off track, “Whether of not you approve of whoever I inevitably date is irrelevant to me. I choose, not you.”

“You are thirteen,” He interjected calmly, “What exactly do you know about dating—“

“What do you know about dating?” She challenged, “You think you’re so much better than me because you’re older, but—Tom, what could you possibly know about—“

“Walk with me,” He cuts her off, taking her by the arm and glancing around them, pulling her away from the school to start on their walk home. She snatched her arm back.

“No,” She refused, “You want to walk so that you can be a total arsehole without anyone else noticing—“

He grabbed her arm again, his voice stern as he said, “Walk with me.” Like it was an order. Like he had the right to order her around.

“You know what, Tom?” She snapped, not bothering to pull her arm back because he would probably just grab her again, “I am allowed to have a life outside of you—“ His features shifted, somehow, as if he wanted to react to what she said but wouldn’t allow her to see what he was thinking. “And maybe I am too young, maybe I don’t know anything yet—but one day I’m going to start dating and get married and you need to understand—“ He let go of her arm and rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring up at the sky as if begging for heavenly assistance, “Why are you treating me like a child—I’m not a child, Tom—“

“You are thirteen,” He seethes, as if he’s tired of saying it, but she’s even more tired of hearing it, “Of course you are a child—“

“You may be content to be alone forever, Tom,” She snapped, “But I am not—“

“You wouldn’t be alone,” He said cuttingly. She knew he was referring to himself, referring to their friendship, but—he didn’t understand that it wasn’t the same. She wanted a boyfriend, she wanted to kiss a boy, she wanted experience romance, she wanted to fall in love—He may not be interested in any of that, but she wasn’t like him. She didn’t want to live her whole life not knowing what it felt like to fall in love.

She considered, very briefly in the space between his words and hers, if maybe that was why she was so intent to believe she loved Ronald Weasley. She wasn’t illogical, she knew any love she felt at this age would likely fade by the time she was an adult—at least where romantic life is concerned. But that didn’t make any of it feel less real, that didn’t make any of it feel less like everything she believed love to be—

She considered in the moment that maybe he was right, but even if he was right, it was none of his business. 

“I’m not like you, Tom,” She argued, “I’m not a sociopath who is completely uninterested in fostering any relationships outside of my one friend—“

“We both agreed that was debatable,” Was all he said in reply, referring to her use of the word sociopath. And they had had that conversation before. 

“Stop it,” She said sternly, “That’s not what we’re talking about right now.”

“Hey, Riddle!” She hears someone call out. Riddle sighs angrily and turns his head to seek out who was interrupting their conversation, and she saw Harry waving from the field beside the school, football in hand. She saw Riddle’s eyebrow twitch in irritation. “You want to play?”

They always asked, and Tom always said no. On the occasion that Hermione and Tom didn’t take off immediately after lessons, he would always be invited to join the after school game. That was the price of Tom’s charisma, after all, everyone wanted to be his friend, because no one knew what a bastard he was. He would always say no regardless, and Hermione saw him open his mouth to say just that, but she quietly interrupted him.

“You should say yes,” She told him, her tone vicious even though her words were not, “I don’t want you to walk me home.” His chin snapped down to stare at her as if she had grievously insulted him, and she considered that maybe she had. He always walked home with her—it had become a daily part of their day since he showed up on her doorstep and charmed her parents. Rain or shine or anything else, he would always walk home with her.

“Hermione,” He started, not sending shocked or even angry, but his tone carefully concealed, the type of tone he uses when he speaks to professors who he’s trying to impress, and the fact that he is using that tone on her makes her so unbelievably angrier than she already is. 

“Go,” She snaps, “You’re not walking me home today, so maybe you should go finally try to make some new friends.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched away from him, her scowl not dropping from her face even when she slams her front door closed and her parents turn, startled, from where they were sat together upon the sofa in the front room. 

“What happened?” Her father asked immediately.

“Tom is an arsehole!” She snaps.

Her mother, looking horrified, snaps back, “Hermione! Language!” 

“Sorry,” She apologizes immediately, but she doesn’t really mean it. She wonders if Tom even said yes to play football with the boys.

She hopes he did. And she hopes he breaks his leg or something.

—

Her anger has considerably calmed by the next morning. She still sticks by her beliefs that Tom Riddle has absolutely no right to be telling her what to do and who to love, but at the same time, the thought of his reactions don’t make her want to bash her head into a wall. 

With her anger gone, she can recognize the points on which he is right. Ron does dislike her, or at least he doesn’t love her. And given the fact that Harry’s reaction to her anger at Lavender was to assure he that Ron wouldn’t date her because she was thirteen—most likely initially thinking she was angry out of dislike for Lavender instead of love for Ron—she supposes there is probably some truth to Tom’s commentary about her age, about her ignorance because of her age. 

He’s still an arsehole, and she’s still a bit angry at him, but she remembers the way she felt when Lavender was with Ron. She remembers that small fear that she could change the dynamic of their group, that little fear that lay outside of Hermione’s infatuation, that fear that whispered Lavender could take her friends away from her. She thinks that maybe, even if he never admits it, that’s how Tom feels.

She’s prepared to forgive him if he apologizes.

But then she arrives at school and Ron Weasley is limping around on crutches, a large cast on his leg.

“Oh my—Ron!” She calls when she sees him, hurrying toward him in a panic. He offers only a lopsided grin at her obvious distress.

“Hey!” He greets, as if he isn’t injured.

“What happened?” She gasped.

“Accident during football,” He said, shrugging, “It happens to guys all the time—“

“Yes, but how did it happen?” She asked, fussing over him in a way that just made him laugh at her expense. 

“Got nailed in the leg,” He laughed, “Riddle came to play with us—“ She halted, suddenly, feeling as if someone dumped a bucket of cold water of her head. “He’s bloody good, too.“ Of course he was. “But, uh, he went to kick the ball away from me, and someone ran into him, and his foot hit my leg—“

“He broke your leg?” She nearly shrieked.

“Well, yeah—“ Ron shrugged, as if it wasn’t even a big deal. Hermione felt like tearing her hair out. “I mean, I’m fine—he felt pretty awful about it—“

“Where is he?” She seethed, looking around herself to see if she could spot him anywhere outside. 

“Uh—“ Ron sputtered, thrown by the suddenly vicious expression on her face, “I think Year Elevens are on a field trip today, so he’s not—“

Of course, of course he wasn’t in today. She felt like she could hit him, she could break his leg and feel absolutely no remorse—How could he break Ron’s leg? She could imagine him, that stupid fake concern falling over his face while Ron is writhe in pain cradling his broken shin. Tom probably calls the ambulance and worries and then goes back to the orphanage and just laughs like a complete—

“You alright?” Ron asked slowly, his brows drawing together in concern. Hermione nodded, but her scowl was still present and no matter what she did she couldn’t get it off her face. 

“Do you need help?” She asked sharply. Ron shook his head, gesturing to his crutches.

“Nah,” He said, shrugging, “I have these.” She nodded again, so angry she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She just wanted to punch someone—a very particular someone, a notoriously violent someone who had just taken about five hundred steps over the line. “But uh, do you know where Lavender is—?”

She snapped. “No, I don’t know where Lavender is Ronald, she is not my friend.”

“Whoa,” He reared back a bit, eyes wide, “Okay, sorry.” She raised a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. God, she was so angry—she knew Tom had a tendency to get violent with those who did her wrong, but—this was Ron! Ron was their friend! She had just told him she was in love with him, and— “I don’t know why you hate her so—“ 

“You only like her because she feeds your ego every goddamn day.” She interrupted viciously. His brows drew together again, but instead of concern, now it was anger.

“Well, she’s a hell of a lot nicer than you—“ He spat, “I don’t even know why you’re angry—“

“Oh, just—“ She stopped herself, running her hands through her hair and just waling away because she was fairly certain if she didn’t she would completely lose her temper. This was all Tom’s fault, anyway. This is why she didn’t want to tell him who she fancied, because she knew he would get angry and do something horribly stupid, and—

And he wasn’t even at the school. She couldn’t even confront him about it.

Yet.

She barely got through the school day, distracted by her anger. She hoped that with the time she was forced to spend at school would calm her, but it only made her more frustrated. She was sick and tired of Tom feeling as if he has some sort of control over her simply because he was her friend. She felt like she was going to explode—

She waited for him after school outside the front entrance, but he didn’t show. She thought maybe he was getting back at her for the day before, for ditching him outside the school and refusing to let him walk her home. If she was in the right frame of mind, she might’ve let it go until tomorrow. She would have gone home and slept on it and confronted him when she was less furious.

But she did not have the patience to wait. 

She went to where he worked, but Mr. Burke (who was much meaner and much more intimidating than she imagined him to be) said he wasn’t scheduled for that day. So she got back on the bus and ignored her second chance to just go home and leave it until tomorrow.

She had gone to visit the orphanage once before. She was ten and wanted to surprise Tom on a Saturday, so she looked up the address to his orphanage online and went to visit him, but his reaction upon seeing there ensured that she would never visit him there again. At the moment he had seemed furious, but when she looked back on it later she thinks he might’ve been embarrassed. If there was one thing he absolutely never talked about it was the orphanage, so she granted him that privacy.

But honestly fuck his privacy.

She arrived at the orphanage with considerably less confidence that she started with, knowing that Tom will be angry and while she knows that he deserves it, she also knows that it’ll just make everything escalate. But the way she has always handled lack of confidence has been through false bravado, so instead of doing what might be the smarter option and going home, she stormed up to the first boy she saw outside the orphanage and said, “I need to see Tom Riddle right now.”

The boy stared at her with wide, terrified eyes. “I don’t think you want to see T—“

“Did I ask you what you think?” She snapped, feeling mildly sorry for the boy because he had don't nothing wrong, “I need to see him now, go get Tom Riddle and tell him Hermione is waiting to see him.”

He hesitated for only a moment, before standing and slowly walking inside to fetch her friend, glancing back at her twice. She waited, running through her words, rehearsing everything she wanted to say. But when he did come through the front door and approach her, he grabbed her by the arm and started practically dragging her away from the orphanage before she can say anything. 

“Tom—“ She started, pulling back on her arm, but he stared straight ahead of himself and pulled her back down the road to the bus stop she had come from. “What are—“

“I asked you,” He said quietly, “Never to come back here.”

“You broke Ronald’s leg.” She spat. He dropped her arm.

“Yes, I did.” He admitted evenly, “If you expect me to apologize, I am not going to—“

“He didn’t do anything wrong!” She argued, “Ron is our friend—“

“Your friend,” He corrected, the flare of his nostrils the only sign he showed of his temper flaring.

“Fine,” She acquiesced, “My friend. Ronald is my friend, and he did absolutely nothing to you or me, you were not justified to—“

“I was angry,” He offered as an explanation.

“I’m angry now,” She argued, “Does that mean I should break your leg?”

He laughed coldly, emboldened by the knowledge that they were alone and allowing himself to be even more of an arsehole than usual, “I would like to see you try,” He told her. She didn’t break his leg, but she did shove him as hard as she could, which while it didn’t knock him over—he was much bigger than her, after all—did shock him enough that he finally allowed an honest emotion on his face. 

“How dare you!” She started, “You’re supposed to be my friend, Tom, but all you do is try to tell me what to do and then break my other friends legs!” He looked ready to rebut, to make some excuse, but she cut him off before he could even start, “Don’t you see that you upset me?” His mouth snapped shut. She even heard the clack of his teeth. “You aren’t treating me like a friend, Tom, you’re treating me like a dog, and if that’s the way you’re going to act, then I don’t want to be friends!”

He actually physically reared back as if she had slapped him, stepping back and shifting his weight so he didn’t fall backwards. He looked beyond shocked, appalled—she had never called their friendship into question, even when he did something she disagreed with. But she was so fed up with him treating her like a child—“We aren’t children anymore, Tom,” She continued furiously. “We aren’t adults yet, either, but—I’m sick of you treating me the same way you did when I was eight!” His breath is quick and shallow as if he was the one yelling. He tries to arrange his expression into something, but he just looks panicked. 

“Hermione—“ He starts, his voice even despite his expression and his posture and his fidgeting hands. She doesn’t cut him off but he stops himself regardless, almost as if he had expected her to say something, to barrel on and yell at him some more. But she was done yelling, she wanted to hear what he had to say, she wanted him to apologize for once, to admit that he had been horrible to her—

“Do you understand Tom?” She stressed, “You’ve been a horrible friend to me this week.”

“Yes,” He responds evenly, “I understand.”

It’s quiet for a long moment. The bus arrived, but when it pulled over and opened the door and Hermione had the chance to leave, she didn’t want to. She shook her head and the bus driver—wish a scowl—shut the door and drove off, and she told herself when the next bus that comes, she’ll take it, whether he’s apologized or not. He has ten minutes, and then she’s gone no matter what.

“Ronald Weasley is an imbecile,” He told her after a long pause, and she felt her hands clench into fists. He noticed. “He doesn’t like you, he doesn’t understand you, he doesn’t care about anything you care about—“ She turned her head to look out at the street and wondered if she should’ve taken the bus after all. “—If you do date him, when you’re older, you will be unhappy.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.” She told him, “You don’t have the right.”

“I’m your friend,” He spat angrily, “Does that not give me the right?”

“No!” She cried, “It doesn’t!”

“You know I’m right.” He said quietly, sounding a bit desperate. “You’re just being stubborn.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re right,” She argued, stepping forward to grab his hand to try to drive her point home. As the two of them got older, they held hands much less, the childish innocence of holding hands fading into an adulthood that said a girl and a boy can’t hold hands unless they’re in love. She doesn’t think Tom would care, really, but she did. Moments like this, however, she needed to hold his hand, needed to make sure he listened, needed to remind him who she was to him. “You are not responsible for me, Tom.” She told him. His jaw twitched, and she could tell he disagreed. “I don’t like it when you tell me what to do. I don’t like it when you try to control me, even if you’re trying to protect me, I hate it Tom.” 

His fingers had wrapped slowly around her hand, so now they were grasping hands just like they did when they were children. Part of her wished they could go back to when they were children, lounging in the grass at the park watching the clouds, hiding in the library or the playground, holding hands and walking home and trading books and talking about irrelevant things. Being a teenager was complicated and stupid, and while in every other aspect it was exciting—the idea of falling in love, the idea of secondary school and eventually university, the growing independence—the fact that their friendship had to adjust to their changing age frightened her. It was relatively uncommon for children to remain friends from such a young age into adulthood, but she didn’t want to lose him, she didn’t want to fall into the larger portion of the statistic.

“If I make stupid decisions about who I love and I get hurt then that’s my decision, and my fault,” She continued.

“Will you tell me who hurts you, when they do?” He asked, and she didn’t like the way he said when instead of if. But she still laughed lightly, nervously.

“No,” She admitted. He frowned.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll kill them,” She purposefully hyperbolic, waiting for him to roll his eyes and tell her she was exaggerating, but he didn’t. He just kept staring at her, and she didn’t like the seriousness in his gaze, so she mumbled “Or something,” As an afterthought, to lighten the statement so it didn’t feel like an admission. He still didn’t say anything.

She slipped her hand from his grip. “You know that you’ve been horrible,” She told him, “You know you have.”

“I know.”

She waited in silence, reminding herself that if he didn’t apologize by the time the next bus came she would still leave, and that would be it. She wouldn’t ask him for an apology, she wouldn’t tell him what to do, she would wait. If he wasn’t going to apologize of his own jurisdiction for being a total arsehole then he didn’t deserve her forgiveness anyway.

He breathed in deep and let out a tired sigh. He shoved his hands in his pockets and met her eyes. “I won’t apologize for telling you the truth,” He started, ignoring her scowl, “I won’t apologize for breaking Weasley’s leg, because I don’t regret it.” She rolled her eyes, but he apparently wasn’t finished yet, because he fixed her with a very intense glower and finally said, “I do…apologize for upsetting you.”

She hesitated, and she decided that she didn’t like how vague he left his apology, so all she said was, “Elaborate.” His scowl intensified, and he took a deep, calming breath.

“I am sorry,” He started, “for attempting to exercise authority over you that I don’t have.” He paused for a moment, before admitting quietly, “I am not sorry for disagreeing with your choice in…significant other, but I do apologize for attempting to force you to agree with me.” 

She thought for a moment, letting him stand there in the silence and suffer for just a moment before she quietly replied, “Well, I forgive you, then.”

He looked at her in the corner of his eye. “Is it that simple?” He asked her.

“Don’t get any ideas,” She told him, “You’re my best friend and I don’t want to be angry with you, but if you do this again I won’t forgive you.” She meant it to sound lighthearted, despite the fact that it was true, but he still looked very serious.

“I do not like the idea of you dating,” He admitted quietly. She bit her lip and tried to think of what to say.

“When you date, I won’t be mad,” She told him. He rolled his eyes, a small sarcastic smile fitting his lips.

“I do not plan on dating,” He told her, the last word spoken with more venom then Hermione thought was truly necessary. She wasn’t necessarily surprised, because he wasn’t exactly the type to have any meaningful relationship with anyone but her, but she still found it odd. He was inarguably handsome, and he could charm anyone he wanted. She found it strange that he had no interest in ever falling in love.

But then, she wasn’t sure she could ever picture him falling in love with anyone. 

She couldn’t help but think, for a moment, if she was older if he would love her. She thinks he already did, but not in the way she was momentarily considering. If she was older, if she wasn’t still a child to him, she wondered if he might love her in the way he seemed to think he wouldn’t love anyone. He had told her in the past, after all, that he never planned on having any friends until he met her. 

The image was strange, imagining him loving her, but not entirely unusual. She can’t picture herself with butterflies in her stomach or light-headed where Tom is concerned because she just feels too comfortable around him, but she can certainly see herself going on dates—like dinner and movies and whatever else it is people do on dates—because she already likes spending time with him. And she’s not even necessarily thinking on it in a longing way, in a wanting way, she’s just wondering…

She doesn’t really want her best friend to go forever without falling in love. And she knows its not really going to happen, its just a silly what-if, but she would be happy to let him fall in love with her if it meant he would be happier. Would he scowl less, if he was in love? Would his smiles come easier? But then, she couldn’t imagine Tom kissing anyone, ever, not even her, not even a kiss on the head, she can’t imagine him ever wanting to. 

It’s a silly thought, but it stays for a while in the recesses of her mind. And she liked that thought better than the thought of Tom loving someone else. For a moment, she thinks she may have been lying when she told him she wouldn’t care if he dated, because the thought of him sharing those cruel, truthful smiles with anyone else makes her feel inordinately angry.

And just like that she understands. It doesn’t excuse the behavior, of course, but she understands where all of his anger was coming from, because the thought of him acting the way he did with her with anyone else, the thought of him wanting to spend time with someone other than her—it made her a bit angrier than she felt was truly justified. In fact, it made her quite a lot angrier than what was justified.

The bus was approaching, and she waved it down, reaching in her skirt pocket to pull out her bus pass. “Well,” She said finally, “That’s fine then, you can just spend time with me instead.” She smiled, shrugging in a lighthearted way to communicate she was joking. He didn’t look at her like she was joking. He gave her a very serious nod, and fixed his eyes on the pavement when the bus finally pulled to a stop beside them. 

She wanted to hug him, kind of, because although they had been friends for a long time, this was their first fight where she actually considered breaking their friendship. But they actually hadn’t hugged before. Ever.

She decided she was justified anyway, so she stepped forward and slid her arms under his and around his waist, pressing her cheek against his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t really seem shocked or surprised or uncomfortable, he just lifted one hand out of his pocket to lay it on her back in a horrible imitation of a hug. She pulled back and smiled, because at least he hadn’t pushed her away or anything, and boarded the bus without another word.

She waved from the window while the bus pulled away and he waved back.

When the bus pulled away she turned back in her seat and watching him turn and walk away from the bus stop back toward the orphanage, and she can’t help but think how sad it looks to see him walk back alone knowing how much he hated where he was going, and while she was happy for her own sake that she hadn’t ended their friendship, she was especially happy for his sake. Her life would be very different without Tom, and she knew his life would be very lonely without her.

And Ron Weasley wasn’t worth it anyway.

—

It takes a while for Hermione to get over the butterflies, but its probably around the time that Ron brags for, like, fifteen minutes about how he made out with a seventeen year old and then he pulls out a cigarette and refuses to listen to her health lectures that she decides that she isn’t quite as in love with him as she thought.

It’s a bit invigorating to not be in love, if she’s honest. As excited as she had been to fall in love, she thinks she’s much happier out of love than in it. It’s easier to love someone than to be in love with someone, anyway. And besides, if she has to decide between Ronald Weasley and—well—anything else, she would almost always choose anything else, so it probably wasn’t love to begin with.

She doesn’t think that to be cruel, but she’s coming to realize that just because your stomach twists around someone, it doesn’t mean you are in love, and even if it does, it doesn’t mean you are compatible. 

Tom noticed she isn’t in love with Ron the moment it happened, basically, and he is inordinately glad.

“If you could wipe that smile off your face, that would be lovely,” She told him. 

“Tell me again,” He asked her, smiling like the devil himself after she had ranted for about fifteen minutes about the state of Ron’s essay and the fact that he expected her to fix it for him and—doesn’t he know that I’m two years younger than him? I’m not even taking those lessons and I still know more than he does—

“No,” She refused, “This doesn’t make you right.”

“No,” He agreed, “Of course not.” 

He hasn’t smiled like that in a while—freely and viciously and unbridled—so she can’t find it in herself to be truly angry at the sarcastic tone. “Well,” She continued, “I’m certainly not going to mention the next boy I decide I’m in love with.”

“I’ll be able to tell,” Tom told her, “You’re shit at lying.”

“Shut up,” She scolded him, “I am not!”

“Lie about something now,” He prompted, turning his head to gaze down his nose at her. 

She hesitated, “Well—I don’t know what to lie about,” He scoffed, shrugging as if that proved something. “Well—okay—you lie about something then.”

“I broke Weasley’s leg on purpose,” He said flatly. She stopped walking, and he followed suit, raising an eyebrow while she stared up at him in confusion.

“But…” She starts quietly, “That’s the truth though.” He smirked. “Or—or—are you telling the truth, because I’m expecting a lie, so—even though its the truth its technically a lie because you’re presenting it as—or—“ He laughs at her shortly, turning away and continuing to walk as if she wasn’t infuriatingly confused because of him. “Tom—“ She calls irritatedly, catching up to him and peering up at him as if she could catch him out on a lie if she looked closely enough—which, well, she could. “Was it on purpose? Honestly.”

“No.” He answered. She raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “I kicked him on purpose, but I didn’t mean to break his leg.”

“Oh, please,” She started.

“Do you think I wanted to listen to him sob for two hours while we chartered him to a hospital? I just wanted to see him on the ground.”

She set her hands on her hips, “And how did you feel after you found out it was broken?” his answering smile was all she needed to answer that question, “Honestly, Tom,” She scoffed, “You’re the worst.” 

He laughed, and though his laugh—as rare as it was—was always a bit too high pitched and a bit too cruel and a bit too cold, the sound of it unexpectedly warmed her. So she took his hand in hers, because it didn’t really matter to her anymore if people said that you weren’t supposed to hold hands unless you were dating, because Tom was her friend and she would hold his hand if she wanted to. And he didn’t pull away, so he obviously didn’t mind.

But then, she wasn’t sure he ever pulled away.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione’s 15th birthday starts as her birthdays always do, bright and early before her parents go to work. They shower her in presents and cake for breakfast—which is a gift in itself, given the fact that she has two dentists for parents. It’s lovely, especially because she may have asked for a rather expensive book that she knew Tom and his eye on so that she could lend it to him after she read it, and her parents wrapped it prettily in shiny paper and presented it to her that sunny Saturday morning. It was warm and lovely, and when they left for work they hugged and kissed her and said happy birthday at least twenty times.

“Will Tom be coming over later?” Her mother asked—he often did, and Hermione’s parents seemed to become more and more fond of him the more they met him. 

“Probably,” Hermione said around a mouthful of cake, already curled up on the couch with her new book, “We’ll probably go outside, since it’s so sunny.”

“Well, wear a coat,” Her mother nagged, putting on a coat of her own as she got ready to head out, “And tell him to take home some cake!”

“Will do, mum,” Hermione agreed, only half paying attention. Her mother smiled, stopping to press a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head before going her father at the door.

“Happy birthday darling!” She said for the twenty-first time. Hermione smiled after them, waving as the door swung shut and turning her attention back to her book. It was still dreadfully early, and Tom wouldn’t be coming to see her for at least another couple of hours, so she wanted to spend some time—as she always did—curled up with a book.

She was always excited to see Tom, but she was especially excited today. It was her birthday, of course, but it was also his final year before he went on to University. She tried desperately to hold back on her questions when they were together—where did he want to go? Oxford? UCL? What did he want to study?—but she did a terrible job at it. He never gave her a straight answer, if he gave her any answer at all. 

Admittedly, it made her a bit nervous. While she didn’t want to admit it—because all of this was entirely his decision—she didn’t want him to go to university too far out of London. If he went to Oxford, there was a chance he could still, sometimes, if he had extra time and extra money, take a train back to visit her. If he went to UCL, well, he would still be in London, so she could see him all the time. But if he wanted to go elsewhere—what if he wanted to go to America? Or Australia? Oh, god, what if she never saw him again—

She took a bite of cake to calm herself and tried to focus on her book. It was Tom’s decision, and she doubted he would want to go anywhere too far anyway. She was his only friend, after all. Wouldn't he want to stay at least sort of close? 

But then…Tom Riddle was very comfortable with being friendless.

It didn’t matter, and she was being ridiculous. The only universities they had ever spoken about had been in London or not-too-far away from London. She was panicking for no reason.

It’s just that he was her best friend. She saw him every day, she told him everything (almost), they did everything together—and when they did talk about the future, which admittedly was not terribly often, they did talk about a future together, so she needn’t worry about him ditching her or anything. It would just be such a big change, when it happened. And she knew from experience that whenever their relationship faced any sort of change, they fought.

But they still had a year left, so she tried not to worry about it. For now, their friendship had never been better, they had never been closer, and she had never been happier. He was still a bit horrible sometimes, and far too sarcastic, and a bit of an arsehole if she was entirely honest. He still had a tendency be fiercely protective of her in ways she wasn’t sure she entirely approved of, but she discovered she could usually distract him with his anger if she held his hand and talked about something interesting, like a new book or theory or debate.

And for the most part, Tom Riddle was every bit the intelligent, enigmatic, fascinating man that he presented himself to be to everyone else—just marginally less pleasant. And she liked him that way.

And he had fantastic taste in books, as she was rediscovering while reading her new birthday present.

It wasn’t long—or at least, it didn’t feel like long—before the knock at the door roused her from her reading and without much thought she closed the book and left it on the coffee table and rushed to the front door. 

“Happy Birthday,” He greeted before she had even fully opened the door, his tone a bit monotone and unimpressed, not the way one would usually wish a happy birthday, but she felt warmed by the sentiment just the same. He hated birthdays, after all, so the fact that he was willing to acquiesce to her demands and just wish her a happy birthday made her happy, even if he said it as if he was simply getting it over with. She was ready to make some sarcastic reply when his brow furrowed and she stopped.

“What?” She asked. He didn’t answer, but lifted a hand to drag his thumb across the corner of her mouth, and her befuddled look he held his thumb up for her to see the chocolate frosting he had smudged off her face, a single eyebrow arching high on his forehead. She snorted, lifting her own hand to wipe at her mouth in case she still had chocolate all over herself and explained, “Cake,” And with a smile she offered, “Want some?” He nodded, lifting his thumb to suck the chocolate frosting off as Hermione immediately, and unthinkingly, averted her gaze, moving inside as Tom followed. 

“Mum and Dad went to work already,” She called behind her as she grabbed her own plate from the living room and practically pranced into the kitchen, Tom on her heels, watching her with a bemused sort of look on his face. She was about to cut into the cake when he spoke.

“Why is half of it gone already?” He asked, and she shot him a look that suggested that answer should have been obvious. His lips were twitching upwards in what she thought might’ve been mirth.

“Because it’s my birthday?” She drawled, grinning when he rolled his eyes and took the knife from her hands, and she hadn’t realized how closely he had been standing until she saw that he didn’t even have to lean over to cut through the cake that sat on the counter in front of her. It made her feel a bit charmed to see how comfortable he was around her, the way he didn’t seem to mind if his arm brushed hers or if her bushy hair tickled at his neck or if his leg bumped hers. If she was honest, she was indulgent with these touches simply because it made her feel elated the way he didn’t care, even when he kept a constant minimum thirty-centimeter-distance from everyone else. 

She hadn’t realized she had been smiling up at him until he sucked at his finger, and she glanced down to see he had already two slices of cake on a single plate and was lifting it—“Is that all yours?” She asked as he handed her back the knife. His answer was a smirk and a risen eyebrow, so she rolled her eyes and cut her own slice as he meandered away from her and into the living room. 

She had been doing that a lot lately. Staring. She started at the beginning of the school year, and she started consciously trying to memorize his expressions and the way he walked, knowing that he would be gone the next year and—it was a bit melodramatic, honestly, and she knew that. But she had always been a bit melodramatic, and the thought of her best friend leaving brought out the worst in her. But over the course of the month, she found she examined him quite frequently without even realizing it. 

Unsurprising for certain reasons—he was handsome, of course. But more than that she liked to pick apart his expressions and discover how much he revealed and how much he didn’t reveal that she could still see.

She rinsed her knife in the sink and set it beside the cake, following Tom into the living room, but she halted suddenly when she saw him examining the book on the table. “What is this?” He asked quietly, curiously, not looking up at her when she entered. She sighed loudly.

“Well, it was supposed to be a surprise, but…” He looked over at her, his eyebrows drawn together in genuine confusion, “I asked for it for my birthday, I figured you could read it after.” She set her plate on the table beside his, reaching for the book in order to take it back but he pulled it away from her grasp. 

“Well, let’s read it now.” He offered. She frowned.

“I’m not done yet,” She started, expecting him to want to read it on its own, but he shrugged.

“We’ll start where you left off—“

“I’m already halfway through—“

“Well, I can read the beginning later,” He pressed, his eyes boring into hers in a way she was certain he meant to sway her. She huffed quietly through her nose.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” She muttered, and his lips quirked upwards again.

“You should’ve thought of that before you left it on the table,” He lectured nonchalantly, “Now sit.” She glowered at the order and his lips turned up into his first cruel smile for the day, “Or I suppose I could just read it without you—“

She snatched the book from his hands, refusing to allow herself to smile as she grumbled, “Shut up,” And threw herself back on the sofa, tucking her feet underneath herself and propping the book on her knees as he fell back beside her, his arm stretched across the back of the couch. She leaned forward to take a bite of her cake while he lifted his plate and set it upon his lap, his body half-turned toward her so he could read the book that she had propped on her knees.

They sat there for a while, Hermione tucked into his side, silently reading, only speaking if one tried to turn the page before the other was finished. Hermione might’ve briefly noticed the ease with which the two of them settled together, the nearly second-nature way in which they accommodated each other, the way she shifted when Tom needed to lean forward to return his plate to the table, the way Tom shifted in turn when Hermione reached across him to switch on the lamp beside them for better light, the way—when they did began debating the contents of a certain chapter—Tom’s arm shifted from the back of the couch to circle her so he could grasp the book himself with her. 

“You’re being purposefully vague because you know the author never said—“

“Christ,” He grumbled, and she feels it reverberate through her as he flips back three pages, “He literally said it less than ten pages ago—“

“Stop it,” She demanded, pushing his hands off the book and flipping back to where they were, “I’m still reading—“

“You just don’t want me to prove you wrong—“ He scoffed, batting her hands away as he continued to flip back in the book. Her cell phone rang on the table before she could retaliate, so she ducked under his arm and he lifted the book from her knees to place it on his lap as he scanned the pages. Her caller-ID said it was Harry.

“Hello?” She chirped into the phone.

“Happy Birthday, Mione!” He greeted loudly, and she couldn’t help the large grin that took over her lips.

“Thank you, Harry!” She laughed, and she discreetly rolled her eyes when Tom placed the open book back in her line of vision, pointing to his proof on the page. She ignored it, taking the book from his hands and closing it as she placed it on the table. She shot him a wide-eyed, innocent look accompanied by a shrug of her shoulders while he fixed her with a long-suffering glower. 

“Are we still on for the park today?” Harry asked, “I have your birthday present—“

“Oh Harry, you know I hate birthday presents,” She mumbled, picking up Tom’s empty plate and offering him her half eaten slice as he glared at her from the book which he had reopened to prove her wrong. 

“I know, but you’ll like this I promise,” Harry swore. She raised her eyebrows and shook the plate gently, and Tom took it after a brief hesitation. She laughed.

“Okay, well yes, Tom and I are meeting you at the park later. Is Ron coming?” Tom held the book in front of her again, holding it open on her lap so she couldn’t close it and she couldn't stand up and walk away. She gave him a look but he only glanced pointedly down at the book. He was right, and when she looked back up from the book to glare at him he had a very smug smirk on his face. 

“Uh…yeah, he’s bringing Lavender—“ She groaned, thrusting the book back into Tom’s lap as she picked up the dirty plate and walked to the kitchen. 

“He’s bringing Lavender to my birthday celebration?” She asked, a bit embarrassed by how whiny she sounded but feeling a bit justified given the fact that it was no secret her and Lavender did not exactly get along.

“Well, they had a date or something, and—“

“Whatever, Harry, as long as she doesn’t get me a present. She’ll probably buy me makeup or something—“ She ran the sink, washing the plate as Harry cut her off.

“Hold on,” He said reproachfully, “Last time I commented on her makeup you gave me a thirty-bloody-minute lecture about respecting girls’ choices to wear makeup if they want to—“

“I know,” She stressed, “But this is different, she can wear makeup if she wants to, but I—“ She sighed, pausing in her washing to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Maybe I am being hypocritical—“

“You’re not,” A voice said by her ear and she jumped to see Tom had followed her into the kitchen and was handing her his empty plate. She gave him a half-glare for startling her but otherwise just silently handed him the clean plate to dry as she washed the other. He picked up the dry cloth by the sink and did just that.

“You never think anything is hypocritical,” She said lightly to Tom, and he raised an eyebrow in response.

“What?” Harry’s voice sounded in her ear.

“Oh, nothing,” She said quickly, “I was speaking to Tom. So we’ll meet you at two?”

“Tom is already with you?” Harry asked laughingly, “It’s not even noon yet.”

“Harry, noon is not early,” She scoffed, “Anyway, I’ll see you at two. Same spot?”

“Yeah,” He agreed, “See you two, later.”

She was the first to hang up, handing Tom the other dish to dry as she locked her phone and set it on the counter before hoisting herself up to sit beside the sink. When Tom finished drying, he slid his hands in his pockets and stood beside her, his arm bumping her knee. His tone was victorious when he asked her, “Purposely vague?” 

She shrugged innocently, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, I don’t ever recall saying that.”

She expected a witty retort, but he didn’t offer one. He just allowed a slow smile to stretch across his face as he regarded her in silence, and while the moment was probably no different than any other moment they allowed to pass in silence, she still felt somehow unsettled by it. There was something in the way he looked at her for a moment, something that changed the meaning of the silence so suddenly that she didn’t know where they stood. She thought it might be that she was too tuned to his mood swings, that any sudden shift in his thoughts triggered some response in her, made her feel the need to reassess a situation even if it didn’t require reassessing. She thought there probably wasn’t a shift at all.

But he didn’t break eye contact first, she did, sliding off the counter, and when she looked back up at him his face was shuttered, and she thought she might’ve been wrong. “Ice cream?” She asked. He regarded her silently in a way that suggested he was seriously judging her dietary choices for the day, “It’s my birthday,” She defended, “If I want to ruin my teeth with sugary everything, then I can.”

His lips twitched and he nodded his ascent. She grinned in response, flouncing to the front room to pull her shoes on, calling over her shoulder, “You left your scarf here last weekend and I’m wearing it!” as she wrapped it around her neck. He paused by the kitchen doorway when she opened by the door. “Ready?” She asked, extending her hand.

He nodded and slipped his hand into hers.

—

Tom and Hermione were early to the park, so they sat beside the willow tree where Ron and Harry would later meat them and they laid back on the grass as they waited. “Do you remember when we were small enough to hide under the branches?” She asked him after a moment. He hummed in response. “Sometimes I wish we could be that small again.” He didn’t answer except the shift his thumb along the back of her hand where it was clasped around hers, still. She turned her head to watch his expression when she asked, “Have you decided on university?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I decide.” He answered immediately, and she didn’t like the way his face was so stoic when he said that. She got the distinct feeling he might be hiding something from her, but she didn’t press. It was his business where he went to university, first of all, and there was a plethora of reasons he might not be telling her where he wants to go. He might not know yet if he’s accepted and doesn’t want to jinx it.

Or he might want to go somewhere far away and doesn’t want to tell her yet.

She took a deep, calming breath through her nose and he took note, turning to glance at her as she turned her head back to the sky. He made no move to comfort her, however, said nothing to put her at ease. After a brief moment he simply turned his head back to the sky as well and they laid there in silence.

Hermione decided not to think about it for the moment. She distracted herself with the clouds and when that wasn’t enough she lifted their joined hands and commented, “Lavender was trying to read my palm the other day, you know.”

He snorted, “Really?” He indulged. She nodded, unwinding their fingers so she could trace her finger along the line at the top of his palm. He watched her.

“Yeah, she went to a psychic once and thinks it’s all—I don’t know, she tried to teach me,” She started, “This line…says something about your love life,” She said, tracing the line at the top of his palm, back and forth, “But I have no idea what it says about your love life, just…something.” She cast a quick glance at his face to see he was smiling, barely. 

She traced the second line, “This is straight,” She said, “So you think realistically, or something, i only know that because I have that so—anyway, this one is, uh—“ She traced the curved line along his palm slowly, and she laughed, “I have no idea, none of it makes any sense.”

His other hand rose to lay over hers, tracing the line with both of their fingers, “it swoops in a semi-circle,” He explained, his mouth tipping up into a smirk when he saw her expression in the corner of his eye, “It symbolizes strength and—“

“Oh, no,” She breathed, “You have got to be kidding me,”

“This line down the middle,” He went on as if she hadn’t spoken, a full-blown, self-satisfied smirk on his face now, “symbolizes that I develop aspirations early on—“ He glanced down at her gaping face, “I read a book about it.” He explained.

“I am horrified,” She said blankly, “You don’t actually believe any of this, do you?”

“No,” He murmured, “But I do find it fascinating.”

“I find it asinine,” She snorted, but he had turned her hand in his, tracing the lines of her palm now instead of his. It tickled on her skin, sending funny little vibrations past her wrist and up her forearm. 

“Shall I read your palm?” He offered.

“Lavender already did,” She reminded him.

“Probably wrong,” He scoffed, “This line—“ He traced the line at the top of her palm, “Angles down, symbolizing a broken heart—“ He moved on to the next, “This line reads you’ll experience an emotional crisis,” She was outright glaring at him now, ignoring the pleasant feeling his fingers traced along her palm, “This,” He continued, well aware of her glower but continuing despite it, “Is short and shallow, suggesting you are easily manipulated by others, so—“ He clasper her hand in his again, turning his head to fully face her as he murmured, “You’ll live a life of heart break and emotional instability, forever manipulated by those you fancy yourself in love with.”

“You made absolutely all of that up,” She snapped back monotone, and he flashed her a full, mocking smile. 

“I’m sorry if your future is not what you hoped it would be—“ He mocked, but he was interrupted when someone nudged him with their foot. His hand immediately lashed out to wrap his fingers around the offender’s ankle out of pure instinct, and Hermione—out of a similar instinct—lunged across Tom to wrap her hand around his wrist and pull his hand away.

“Hey, Ron!” She greeted, who was looking down at them from where he stood with a funny expression caught between amusement and confusion. Lavender stood beside him with a similar expression on her face.

“Hey, Mione,” He greeted, “Got you a car! Since you hate presents and all…” 

She stopped herself from grimacing, letting her hand slip from Tom’s wrist and pushing herself up into a sitting position as he followed suit, his expression calm but his eyes severe as he looked up at the Weasley boy—he had never liked him, anyway, and Ron never had an understanding of how not to greet Tom Riddle.

“Thanks, Ron!” She said genuinely, leaning over Tom again to hug Ron as he sat down on the other side of him. Lavender tucked herself into Ron’s side.

“It’s from both of us.” She said with a kind if not slightly strained smile. Hermione returned the same type of smile.

“Well, thanks to both of you,” She said. She sure as hell wasn’t going to hug Lavender. “I’ll read it later—“

“Happy birthday!” A voice screamed from behind her, arms wrapping around her shoulders and nearly throwing her to the ground in their excitement. Tom flinched quite violently beside her but made no move to defend her once he saw who it was.

“Harry!” She scolded, but her tone was warmed by her laughter as he unwound his arms from her and sat at her side, gaining and holding out a gift bag hanging on one finger. She snatched it out of his hands, half-glaring at him, “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” He said, but he obviously wasn’t. “Open your present!”

the bag turned out to be completely unnecessary, because all that lied within it was a pair of cheap looking necklaces. She lifted them out of the bag and lifted them to eye level to see they were a pair of those cheesy, best-friend necklaces children always bought for eachother. Laughing, she asked, “Is this for you and me?”

“No,” Harry said, grinning, “For you and Tom.” 

She laughed louder, then, handing one of the necklaces to Tom. He took it, lifting it almost as if he was saying ‘cheers,’ and Hermione rubbed her thumb over the face of the heart. “Ugh,” She groaned, “The glitter comes off—oh god—it’s getting everywhere—“

“Put them on!” Harry prompted, and Hermione turned immediately to Tom with a wide grin.

“You first,” She demanded, holding her hand out flat for him to drop the necklace into while he raised an unamused eyebrow. Still, he let her have the necklace, and she reached around to clasp it around his neck, laughing at his completely unamused expression as the glitter fell off the necklace onto his shirt. When he put the necklace on her, the glitter fluttered onto his scarf, and she barely heard him mumble, “Of course the glitter gets on all of my things.”

“There!” Harry said, a funny sort of pride in his voice, “Something to remember each other by.”

She didn’t like the sound of that.

“Shit, that’s right!” Ron said suddenly, “This is Riddle’s last year before—shit, mate, you decide on a university—?“

Deciding she really wasn’t interested in this conversation, Hermione suddenly and quite obviously but in and said, “Lavender!” Said girl looked shocked, and almost looked as if she was expecting Hermione to insult her, “Tom was telling me about palm-reading, he read a book on it!”

“Oh, really?” Lavender asked.

The conversation shifted from palm-reading to other light-hearted topics, but Hermione didn’t miss the knowing gleam in Harry’s eye.

—

It was nearly Christmas when Tom told her anything about where he was planning on going.

She had long since dropped the subject, distracting herself with other conversations and with simply spending time with him, refusing to think about whether or not he had decided, whether or not he would still be nearby for the three years he spent in university.

But two days until Christmas, she had dragged him to Hyde Park to see the lights and they sat on a bench taking turns holding the umbrella against the pouring rain, watching the way the lights were blurry behind the onslaught of rainwater. And he just said it.

“I’ve decided to go to Hogwarts.” He informed her. She didn’t know what to say at first. She just sat there in silence as he took the umbrella from her hand, taking over responsibility for holding the umbrella as her hand fell into her lap. “They asked me to apply in September, so I did. I’ve been accepted.”

“That’s in Scotland, isn’t it?” She asked. He nodded. “It’s a very exclusive university.” 

“Yes it is.” He agreed quietly. It was silent for a very long time, an uncomfortable silent, all of Hermione’s fears about him going away becoming a reality until she wasn’t sure if she was happy for him at all or if she wanted to convince him to just change his mind. But that was selfish, and she wanted him to be happy, it’s just—

She took his hand in hers—the one that wasn’t holding the umbrella—and replied carefully, “I’m happy,” She said, focusing on the christmas lights instead of him, “I want what you want.” She tells him, because she does, she wants him to do what makes him happy, but Scotland? “When will you be home?”

“Christmas and Summer holiday, if I can find a place to stay.” He answered promptly.

“Don’t be silly,” She murmured, “You can stay at my house.” He turned his head to look at her, and she realized that they had both been avoiding looking at each other, staring out at the lights. “Obviously,” She added. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand again, a habit he had picked up only recently. 

She thought for a moment that she was being melodramatic again—plenty of people’s friends go to university and they do just fine. Plenty of people’s family goes to university and they do just fine, but—it’s different with Tom, it’ll be worse when he goes. He isn’t like Harry and Ron, who of course she’ll miss but she won’t really be missing much without them. She entertained the thought, for a moment, that he’s more like a big brother who she’ll miss terribly, but even that analogy seemed lacking somehow. Tom was family, certainly, and probably in some ways acted very much like a brother—in how fiercely he protected her from boys, certainly—but he wasn’t a brother. He was her best friend.

They could talk on the phone, she supposed. It might not be the same, but it would be something. And even if he met hundreds of people at university just like him, she thought maybe his leaving didn’t mean his moving on, maybe going to university didn’t have to necessarily mean leaving her, it was more temporary than that, it was more necessary than that, it was—

“I’ll miss you terribly.” She told him. 

“I know.” He said simply.

She’d wanted him to say he’d miss her too, but she supposed that might be too much to ask for. She didn’t push the conversation further, feeling much sadder tans he felt she probably should so close to Christmas, and quietly took the umbrella from his hand and laid her head on her shoulder. 

With his hand freed, he enveloped hers in both of his, and they sat in silence for a very long time.

—

“Hogwarts?” Harry echoed when she told him where Tom planned to go. She had tried to avoid the subject but it had come pouring out when they were walking home from the cafe they frequented. Tom was working, so he wasn’t present, which was probably good considering what happened next.

“Shit,” Ron swore, “I sort of thought he would go somewhere nearby so he could stay near to you.” Hermione didn’t want to say it, but she thought he would, too. She should’ve known he wouldn’t—after all, she knew she wouldn’t base her university decision on wherever he was so she wasn’t sure why she was getting so upset over this whole thing. But then Ron made the very poor decision of saying, “What are you gonna do with yourself when he’s gone?”

“What do you mean?” She asked. Ron frowned.

“Well,” He said simply, “You’re with him like every minute you can. Now he’ll be gone for months at a time, and—what if he likes it there so much he doesn’t want to come back?”

She felt something akin to panic building up in her throat—only lacking in its urgency—as she considered Ron’s words. She couldn’t respond, feeling too unsettled with the possibility. What if he was right? What if Tom’s fixation on her as his only friend is only because there is no one else here that he is interested in? What if he meets another best friend at Hogwarts and he doesn’t care about her anymore or—

What if he meets a boy or girl who he actually fall in love with?

Horrifyingly, she begins to cry.

“Shit—Hermione—are you—? Goddamn it, Ron—!” Harry sputtered, stopping in his tracks so he could lay his hands on Hermione’s shoulders and try to calm her. She’s not quite blubbering, but her eyes are quickly filling with tears and she doesn’t quite trust herself to speak just yet.

“Sorry!” Ron practically squeaked, “I didn’t know she would—she never cries! She hasn’t cried since she was, like, eight!”

“I—I’m sorry,” She stuttered, thankful that she’s not sobbing, but still humiliated that tears are spilling out of her eyes and onto her cheeks. 

“No—no, it’s okay!” Harry soothed her, his hands running up and down her forearms, “It’s—of course he’ll want to come back, Hermione, you’re his best—in fact, his only friend—“

“Exactly!” Hermione cut in, “I’m his only friend, what if he meets another friend at Hogwarts and then he doesn’t need me anymore?”

“Hermione,” Harry started soothingly, “If he hasn’t met anyone in the whole of London in all nearly-18 years of his life other than you who he’s wanted to befriend, I seriously doubt he’s going to find someone at Hogwarts who he likes better than you.”

She took a deep, soothing breath and nodded. He was probably right. “I’m being so melodramatic—“

“A little bit,” Harry admitted, and Hermione hit him lightly. His eyes brightened, and desperate to lift her spirits, he teased, “Well, if your guard-dog isn’t going to be walking you home—“ She glared at him for that comment, “We can’t have you punching like that, can we Ron?”

“Nah,” Ron agreed, “That was down right pathetic,”

“I can punch just fine,” She muttered.

“Alright,” Ron said, moving to stand in front of her and moving around in a ridiculous mockery of a boxer, “Come on, give me your best shot, pop me right in the jaw—“ 

“I’m not going to hit you,” She laughed. Harry stood at her side, mirroring Ron’s posture, instructing her on what to do, “I’m not doing it, there’s no reason—“

“Yeah,” Ron shrugged, dropping his fists when it became clear to him she wasn’t going to hit him, “Probably hits like a girl, anyway.”

She grit her teeth and punched him right in the face.

“Ah—Jesus—“

“I’m so sorry!” She gasped, “I thought you would block—“

“Well I didn’t think you would bloody well punch me, did I?” Ron snapped back. Harry had practically collapsed into laughter at her side and she found herself torn between joining him in laughing or feeling sorry for Ron who was now rubbing at his sore jaw.

“Well, how was the punch, mate?” Harry asked, still grinning but his laughter subsided.

“Bloody fucking good,” Ron muttered begrudgingly.

“See?” Harry said lightly, slinging his arm around her shoulders, “You’ll do just fine.”

She was surprised that she actually did feel a bit better.

—

Tom’s birthday was mildly less momentous than her own, and that was saying something, considering all she had really done on her birthday was eat cake and hang out at the park with her friends. But Tom hated birthdays, and hated New Years, so if she ever tried to celebrate either with him he usually got into a very sour mood very quickly. 

It was too cold at that time of year to spend their time outside, and her parents were having a party with work colleagues at their house, which was fine, of course, but also terrible and awkward and she hated it. But she absolutely never went to the orphanage unless absolutely necessary (He would be out of there soon anyway) and she certainly never entered the orphanage, so…

They went to a party of sorts that Ron and Harry recommended, which turned out to be at Lavender’s house—which—okay. Hermione slid her hand into Tom’s the moment they entered and Lavender greeted them loudly and joyously and, if Hermione wasn’t mistaken, drunkenly. “Welcome!” She said, completely lacking in any of the resigned animosity she usually directed towards Hermione, “Ronny told me you were coming—“ Hermione bit back a disgusted retort. Ronny. “Do you want a drink—?”

“No.” Hermione answered blandly, and realizing she was being rude considering they were guests, she added, “Thank you, Lavender.” The girl nodded happily and bounced off toward the other guests in the room. It wasn’t quite the party Hermione was expecting, and she was glad for it. It wasn’t very loud, her house wasn’t packed with people Hermione didn’t know. It also wasn’t the quiet celebration she might’ve preferred, a large assortment of people all ages gathered around the living room in front of the television, another group situated back by the kitchen playing drinking games—it was a bit rambunctious but not to the point of discomfort. 

“You can drink, now,” She realized, smiling a bit cheekily up at him as he pulled her toward the kitchen, “Legally, I mean,” He gave her a funny look, as if he didn’t see the significance of anything being legal, and handed her a drink once they reached the refreshments table. “Oh, no,” She said, “I’d rather—“

“You don’t have to drink it,” He murmured, stepping a bit closer so that he could still be heard over the laughter around them, “But if you don’t have a drink in hand you will be accosted by drunkards every moment wondering if you’d like a drink.” He held it out to her again, “So just hold it.”

She sighed and took the drink from his hand while he held one of his own, “Well, when I do finally get drunk, it’ll be with people I know and like,” She stressed, glancing pointedly around the room, “Not with a bunch of people I don’t know and don’t even particular care for.”

She was mildly surprised when he slipped his hand from hers and moved it to press against the space between her shoulders, ushering her away from the table. “Come,” He said curtly, “Let’s move away before people start talking to us.” The disdain with which he referred to social interaction made a laugh bubble up in her throat, and when he perceived that she was laughing at him he shot her a half-serious glower as he continued to direct her to a spot near the staircase that was less populated than the rest of the room. 

“I don’t know why we came here, really,” Hermione admitted quietly. He didn’t say anything, just leaned against the wall as she did and watched her expression, “Neither of us are party people, exactly.”

“That’s likely an understatement,” He muttered. 

“But it’s too cold to stay outside,” She reasoned, “And this is better than my house, trust me—“

“Riddle, mate!” A boisterous voice called out, and she was fairly certain she heard Tom mutter Unlikely under his breath as he turned and flashed a wide, charming smile at the boy who stumbled up to the pair of them. She didn’t know him, but he looked vaguely familiar. 

“McLaggen,” Tom greeted in a falsely pleasant tone, “Happy New Year,”

“Yeah, mate!” The boy—well, Hermione considered he might be more of a man than a boy in the very same way Tom was now more of a man than a boy—laughed loudly, slapping Tom on the shoulder in what she was certain was supposed to be friendly. Tom’s eye’s flashed but his smile didn’t waver. “Gonna be a great one! Heard you’re going to Hogwarts—“

“Yes, what university did you decide on?” Tom quipped back a bit sharply. McLaggen looked a bit confused before a borderline-lecherous smile graced his features. Hermione had a feeling the leering quality to his grin was entirely unintentional, a natural set of his smile in the same way Tom’s were naturally cruel. 

“Nah, not for me, mate,” He laughed again, quite loudly, and surprisingly his gaze slid over to her when he said proudly, “Actually going pro-football.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond, but she had the distinct feeling sh was expected to say something, so she shrugged and replied, “Oh, well…Ron would be very impressed by that.”

It was not the response he was expecting, because he frowned and asked quite rudely, “Who the fuck is Ron?” 

“Alright, McLaggen,” Tom cut in pleasantly, laying his hand roughly on the man’s shoulder in the same way McLaggen had done to him a moment ago, some false sign of friendship, and he said, “I think you have a few admirers over there hoping to get your attention,” He nodded to a couple girls who had been glancing over. Another lecherous smile crossed his features and he slapped Tom on the back.

“Right, I got an exciting night ahead of me,” He said. Hermione grimaced. “See you round, Tom. And uh…” He hesitated, “Bye Granger.”

He left, and Hermione practically gaped after him. “He knows my name?” She asked with a disgusted grimace.

“He knows me, so he knows you,” Tom said. His face was expressionless but his tone held all the disgust she mirrored in her voice.

“That doesn’t make much sense,” She said, “I’m three years younger than him, there’s no reason why he should—“

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Tom cut in tiredly, still glaring after the aforementioned irritant, “You and I spend quite a lot of time together. People tend to associate us with each other.”

“That’s not quite true,” She started to disagree, but she hesitated. In her hesitation he directed his gaze at her, a single eyebrow risen as he so often did, awaiting her explanation. “Alright,” She acquiesced, “It’s sort of true.” He didn’t say anything, just lifted his eyes to watch McLaggen again.

“I do hate how people like you so much,” She admitted quietly, and she succeeded in temporarily pulling his attention back to her for a moment when he gave her a wry smile—or as close to a smile as he gives in situations like these—“Even the annoying ones just walk right up to you as if you’re friends or something.” He hummed in agreement, “Maybe we should leave,” She offered, “We could go to a pub or something and you could buy me alcohol,” She smiled up at him as he huffed out a quiet laugh. His hand rose to linger on her hand which held her own drink, his fingers lightly trailing across the back of her hand as he looked at her pointedly. “I mean a good drink,” She specified, “I took a sip of this while McLaggen was here and its horrid.”

“And I suppose you would know a good drink when you had one,” He commented sarcastically. She supposed he probably had a point but she was stubborn enough not to admit it.

“Well, I know it’s not this,” She said, but she realized she had made a mistake in mentioning the future-footballer again because Tom’s eyes had once again sought him out in the crowd and was watching him. “Alright,” Hermione sighed, “I understand he’s probably horribly annoying, even I could tell that in the thirty seconds he was here, but—“

“It’s nothing,” He said evenly, “I’m just keeping an eye on him.”

“Why?” She asked, “What do you care what he gets up to?”

“I don’t,” He seethed quietly. She narrowed her eyes.

“Tom,” She said quietly, trying to mimic the way his voice sounds when he’s trying to be threatening. If she could tell anything by the way his eyes snapped to hers and he looked suddenly both amused and irritated she supposed he must’ve noticed her attempt. “Why did he know my name?”

He was quiet.

“If you’re lying to me about something—again—“ She stressed that phrase because he was always trying to keep things from her that he didn’t want to talk about, “I will become very angry and I will ruin both your birthday and your New Year—why did he know my name? Really.”

She didn’t notice that his fingers had continued to trace along the back of her hand until he stopped. His jaw twitched before he spoke, “He has taken an invested interest in you as of late.”

“What does that even mean, Tom?” She asked tiredly.

“It means,” He said lowly, and she could tell he loathed this conversation by the way he nearly snarled when he spoke, “That he has only noticed you recently.”

“Why?” She pressed.

He hesitated for a moment. “Because you’re older.” He finally said. Her brow furrowed for a moment, trying to make sense of what that had to do with anything. When she finally understood she couldn’t help the immediate revulsion on her face.

“Oh you can’t be serious—Tom—“ She shuddered nearly violently, “Oh god—You mean, like, sexually?” His jaw twitched, “Okay—wow—I didn’t need to know that—“

“You asked,” He muttered quietly, but he seemed a bit pleased by her reaction, pleased enough that it seemed to subside his anger for a time. She turned her head to follow his eyes to see what McLaggen was doing, but Tom’s hand snapped up to gently steer her cheek back to face him, “Don’t look at him,” He warned her, “It’ll only encourage him.”

“Please tell me you didn’t threaten him or something—“ She pressed as his hand fell from her face.

“Not exactly,” He admitted, turning a shrewd eye on her, “Would you care if I did?”

“Well—yes—“ She stressed, “I mean, I don’t especially like him, but you can be fairly horrible when you want to, and—well he hasn’t done anything—“

“Perhaps we should leave,” He said suddenly, but she reached out to grab his arm before he could straighten up and try to pull her out of the house.

“Tom,” She started sternly, and briefly broke her tone in order to mutter exhaustedly, “I can’t believe I have to say this,” Before continuing, “Obviously I am not interested in McLaggen.”

“Obviously,” He agreed cuttingly. She ignored him.

“I’m not particularly interested in dating anybody at the moment,” She continued, noticing the way the muscles in his arm seemed to tense and relax when she said that, “And I understand by now that this is just your way of—looking out for me or—“ She sighed sharply to stop herself from rambling, “Just—please—do not let your possessive, jealous, ridiculous paranoia ruin New Years, okay?” He remained sullen and silent. She curled her fingers tighter around his arm. “I just—since its our last year—“

“Why do you always say that?” He finally responds, his voice barely above a murmur, “Why do you say last year?”

Her hand slipped from his arm and fell to her side. “Well, I just—it is our last year—“

“No,” He disagreed, looking strangely pensive though she couldn’t tell what he was pensive about, “I’ll be back for Christmas and New Years and the summer.”

“I know,” She snapped irritably, “But, you’ll also be gone for a very long time, and—“

“And you don’t think I’ll come back,” He surmised. Feeling suddenly very uncomfortable, she downed the entirety of whatever was in her cup and set it on the nearest table to her. He said nothing to comfort her, said nothing to calm her fears, just watched her with a very strange, inscrutable expression on his face. She took his cup and set it beside hers.

“Maybe we should go,” She finally said, coughing a bit from the drink, “We should go.” She repeated for finality’s sake, “I’ll go find Lavender and tell her we had a lovely time and—we’ll go somewhere else, and you can—anyway, I’ll meet you outside.”

He still said nothing. 

—

They went to the shadiest pub they could possibly find, and she sat outside while he went in and got drinks. London after ten was always a bit rowdy and a bit ridiculous, but she had never gone out late on New Year’s Eve, and this was a whole new caliber. She had to admit it was mildly entertaining, if not a bit unsettling, but the discomfort she felt was muffled by the knowledge that Tom would reemerge from the pub momentarily. 

Funny how she always felt so safe with him when she knew what he could do to people.

The two of them got a bit horrifically drunk, in the end. Considering the ease with which Tom could buy the two of them drinks, it was easy to get carried away, easy to drink too much, but she was happy they did. The drink made her feel a bit dizzy, but mostly happy and fuzzy and Tom—well, he was the same as he always was. She wasn’t entirely certain he was even drunk at all, although he drank as much as she had. The only indication he gave of any inebriation was his general ease, the way in which he didn’t constantly examine everything around him. She found that, for once, he wasn’t casting his eyes around them every few moments, and instead focused entirely on her.

It was oddly disconcerting. She had thought he was a bit intense before, but drinking together, it was decidedly more intense.

For her part, her drunkenness prompted absolutely nonsensical conversation. Constantly.

She had been rambling about the ocean for the past fifteen minutes.

“Can you imagine what’s down there?” She stressed, leaning across the table to grasp both of Tom’s arms, “I read online about a sound that they called Julia—“ Tom moved her hands from his arms to place them back on the table, but he didn’t use it as a move with stop her touching him, and instead held her wrists in his hands, his eyes fixed on her fingers as she continued to talk with her hands as if he hadn’t pinned them to the table. “And they don’t even know what made it—it could be Cthulu—“

“Cthulu?” He echoed, amused, his thumbs moving across her wrists. 

“Well, that’s what the web article said,” She mumbled, curling her fingers, bending her wrists against his hold and he slid his hands from her wrists to her hands. 

“The web article told you it was Cthulhu?” He indulged. 

“No,” She stressed, “Well, I mean, yes—it said there was a noise and it could be Cthulhu—it also could just be, like, a super big, super secret whale or something,” She paused, “Or maybe just, like, a radio malfunction or—I mean, if ninety-five percent of the ocean isn’t—“ She paused, and excitedly shifted her gaze from watching his thumbs move across her wrists to stare up at his face, “What if I decided to be a marine biologist and I discovered Cthulhu?” 

He snorted quietly, “Cthulhu would kill you.”

“I’m not scared of Cthulhu,” She scoffed, “I’ve met you. You’re way scarier than Cthulhu.” His eyes flicked up to meet hers, a smile gracing his lips. He looked very pleased by the sentiment. Without warning, she lifted her hands from his and grasped either side of his face, and he didn’t even flinch, his only movement being the bemused furrow of his brow. “I don’t really mean that, though,” She swore to him, “You’re only objectively scary.”

“Objectively?” He murmured, not bothering to pull her hands from his face.

“That actually might not be the right word,” She replied, “I just mean that you don’t really scare me at all.”

“I know,” He said, a bit solemnly.

“Because you don’t do anything to me,” She continued, “You just do things to everyone else. You’re like—Harry called you a guard dog when he taught me to punch—“

“He taught you to punch?” He asked. She dissolved into quiet laughter as her hands fell from his face. 

“I punched Ron in the face,” She admitted with an impish smile. He laughed for the first time that night, watching her drop her head down on the table, resting her cheek on her outstretched arm. He ran his fingers distractedly up the inside of her outstretched arm, and while she liked the feeling of it, she couldn’t help but want to think about what it meant. She felt like there should be meaning behind the way he so comfortably reached for her, the way he really did act like a guard dog, but her mind was so fuzzy she couldn’t focus on anything.

She heard the people around them start to countdown, but the two of them didn’t pay much attention to the ruckus. She remained with her head on her arm, and he rested his chin in one hand while his other traced patterns on her skin. She remembered hearing Lavender once rave on and on and on about the important of kissing someone at the end of the countdown to ensure you stay in each others lives or some other nonsense, so she grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it when the patrons of the pub yelled out “Happy New Year!”

His serene expression had fallen from his face, and while he did not necessarily look angry, he definitely looked ill-at-ease in some way. She smiled, still. “You’re supposed to kiss someone at midnight to stay together, or something, She explained tiredly. 

“Why do you think I’ll leave?” He asked her quietly.

“You will,” She told him, “If you find something better than here.” He frowned, but made no move to reply. Her head was so fuzzy she couldn’t quite get her meaning across, but she tried to continue anyway. “You hate London, and Hogwarts sounds like heaven—I googled it—and everyone there will be so smart and—“

“But I’ll come back to you.” He said firmly. She rolled her head to the side to look up at him, and the look in his eyes was just as firm as his tone. She liked the sound of that a lot—I’ll come back to you—And the sudden twists in her stomach alerted her to certain possibly disquieting emotions that she wasn’t sure she had the energy to face, but her mouth was moving before her brain could stop it, and she admitted—

“I like the sound of that,” She said so quietly she almost hoped he missed it over the noise of the crowd, but he heard it. His hand halted.

“Let’s go,” He replied after a moments hesitation, “I’ll take you home.”

“I can’t go home,” She moaned, “I’m very, very drunk.”

“I’ll take you to Lavender’s house,” He told her, “You can text your parents.”

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut, “But then I’ll have to wake up to Lavender—“ She complained, “Sometimes I wish you had a house so I could wake up to you—“ His nails suddenly dug into the tender skin of her arm and she jerked up, “Ow!”

“I apologize,” He said blankly, pulling his hand away from her arm. “I’m going to go inside and pay,”

“Alright,” She said carefully, examining her arm. It was too dark to tell for sure but she didn’t think it was red, but she could feel the indents of his nails. He stood without another word and walked inside, and she waited apprehensively for him to return. She couldn’t think of what she might’ve said to upset him, but then—she wasn’t even entirely sure of anything she had said. 

The only thing she remembered vividly was the way he looked when he swore he would be back—I’ll come back to you—and she remembered the pleasant squirming feeling in her stomach. She would think on that if the world would just quiet down—

“Well, well, well,” She heard one voice speak above the rabble, “What do we have here?”

She turned her head to the side and promptly groaned, “Oh for fuck’s sake—“

“Are you drunk, Granger?” Malfoy sneered with some kind of perverse glee, setting his hands on the table and leaning toward her to try to meet her eyes, “You of all people, drinking under—“

She slapped a hand over his mouth just long enough for him to shut up before withdrawing her hand as if touching him burned her. “Shut up,” She hissed, “You are obviously drunk, too, so shut up before we get in trouble—“

“This is hilarious,” He said, a wide smile stretching across his lips, “I can’t believe—is Riddle here?” He looked around him, but since Riddle had gone inside, he was nowhere to be seen. “Did he leave you?” Malfoy asked, zeroing in on her again, “Did you two have a fight—“

“Oh, just—“ She had absolutely no patience for him at the moment, and her mind ain’t working quick enough for any witty comebacks. She slammed her hands on the table and stood, “Leave me alone, Malfoy—“ But she stood too quick and the world spun for a second and, horrifyingly, Malfoy caught her by the arm.

“Whoa-ho, Granger!” He laughed cruelly, and it only took a moment for her to sober up when panic set in after he pushed her against the wall. “Just think,” He told her, “Soon, you’ll never have Riddle on your leash,” he threatened, “I heard he’s going to Scotland. Who are you going to send for me then?”

“I don’t need to send anyone,” She spat, “Now get your hands off of me—“ She pulled at her wrists which he had wrapped both his hands around to hold her still. the other people who were hanging around outside the pub were too drunk and distracted to notice the young girl pinned against the wall by the horrible blonde demon. When did he get so tall? 

She managed to get her leg between his about the same time he kissed her, and she jammed her leg as hard as she could into his crotch. He groaned, and spat, “You little bitch—“

Unceremoniously, his body was suddenly ripped away from hers, and Tom Riddle pinned Malfoy to the table with an expression of maniacal glee.

Hermione was frozen until Tom grabbed an empty bottle from the table and smashed it, holding the broken, jagged edge against Malfoy’s throat.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione had always thought of Tom as scary.

Over the years, even knowing him now, knowing he would do her no harm, she still thought of him as mildly frightening. He was intimidating, and violent, and lacking in morality, and on top of that he was beautiful and charming and could get away with anything. He had always been scary, even if he never exactly scared her, he had always been a bit off, a bit dark, a bit frightening.

But she had never been scared of him until she watched him twist Malfoy’s arm behind his back, press his face into the wooden table top and—in plain sight of everyone—smash a bottle and press it against Malfoy’s throat.

She had never seen Tom’s face when he hurt someone before. When she first saw him pinning Malfoy to the ground as children his expression had been hidden behind a curtain of messy hair, his head turned half away from her. She hadn’t been present for any other expression of violence, but if this was the way he looked each time, she was thankful for that. He looked manic, ferocious, teeth bared and lips curled and eyes on fire—he looked like he had come alive, and Hermione—

She couldn’t move.

The world had stopped spinning as soon as her adrenaline started pumping, but now she felt like she was watching this scene from outside of herself, watching herself plastered to the wall of the pub, wide-eyed, gaping, watching and hoping and praying that Tom would just stop—

She heard him when he spoke. She doesn’t think she was supposed to, but she did, and he said, “You might’ve forgotten, but I did promise if you ever touched her I would skin you alive—“

His tone was laced with such perverse glee that something in Hermione finally snapped—her fight or flight instinct finally deciding on its favorite option, fight—and she pushed herself from the wall, “Tom, stop!” She called, setting her hands on his arm which didn’t hold his weapon, but as hard as she pulled he didn’t budge.

Malfoy was whimpering, terrified, shying away from the broken edges of the bottle as Tom pressed it into his throat and Hermione saw blood. “Tom, please!” She begged, panic rising in her throat when she realized—he would really kill him. There was no restraint, no guilt in his face, no second guessing or—he wanted to kill him. The thought was terrifying and shocking but she wondered briefly, in the moments she was desperately trying to regain his attention, should it be?

How many times had he hurt people on her account? How many times had he shown no guilt, sometimes even pride for the pain he inflicted on those he didn’t like? How many times had she allowed him to get away with horrible things simply because she didn’t want him to be in trouble, didn’t want to give her parents reasons to distrust him, didn’t want to lose him? 

And now, watching the harsh edge of a beer bottle digging into Malfoy’s neck, she couldn't tell if she was more horrified that Malfoy may die or that Tom would be seen killing him.

That thought sent a shock through her body so strongly she felt herself practically convulse. Eyes were fixed on them from the patrons of the pub, shock and fear and worry and—she couldn’t let him do it, she couldn’t allow him to throw everything away, to throw their friendship away over some stupid, drunken anger—

She planted her feet, and she grabbed Tom’s shoulder, and she punched him as hard as she could in the face. 

She attributed it to his drunkenness and the fact that he hadn’t even seemed to realize she was there, but when she landed a hit on his jaw, he tumbled to the ground. Her hand ached, but she wasted no time. She knew that as soon as Tom righted himself it was very likely he would dive back in for Malfoy, so she gripped the back of the boys shirt—his terrified noises were quickly subsiding now that he wasn’t facing his imminent death—and she pushed him harshly away. He stumbled over his feet and almost tripped but didn’t. She clasped her hands against his bleeding neck simply because she didn’t want to see it.

“He’s psychotic,” Malfoy sputtered, “He’s—He’s psycho, he’s—wait until my father hears—“

“Shut up!” She spat, continuing to push him away from the onlookers and away from Tom who she believed was still sprawled on the ground. “Shut up, Malfoy! I saved you,” She stressed, desperate and panicked, “I saved your life, do you understand? He would have killed you and I saved your life—you owe me Malfoy.” His eyes were wide, his breathing shallow, he stared down at her with her hands around his neck like he was suddenly afraid of her for the first time and he nodded quickly, snappily, terrified. “You tell no one,” She told him in a low voice. Dimly she was aware that her hands had tightened on his neck, his blood—while he wasn’t bleeding severely he was still certainly bleeding—had seeped through her open fingers. “You go home and you tell your father nothing—do you understand?” He nodded again.

She pushed him away and he stumbled over his feet before turning and running away as fast as his drunken legs could take him. She didn’t realize her breath was coming in short, stilted bursts until she felt suddenly lightheaded, but she still turned to Tom to see him puling himself to his feet. She cast a quick glance at the patrons—drunk, confused, concerned—and she ran towards Tom and grabbed his arm with her bloody hand and dragged him away. Away from the drunkards, away from the broken bottle, away from the place where she had seen him nearly kill someone, away from everything—

She pulled him into an alleyway, her adrenaline still pumping through her veins and giving her—if not clarity of thought—at least some semblance of control over her drunkenness. She threw him ahead of her, knowing that he was much bigger and much stronger than her and he was drunk and obviously easily angered and she should watch herself—

That thought, that simple, obvious thought that anyone would consider when facing someone who nearly killed someone else, terrified her. Because she had never felt afraid of him, never felt wary of him, never felt in danger with him, and suddenly she did. Suddenly she worried that he might do the same to her.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” She spat. She noticed his jaw clench, as if he had any right to be angry with her when she just saved him from a jail cell.

“He had you up against the wall—“ He began to justify, but she cut him off before he could finish, already knowing that he would just be making excuses as he always did for his violence.

“I had it under control!” She argued, her voice loud and echoing off the walls in the dark alleyway.

“He had you pinned!” He challenged, and she was startled to hear him actually raise his voice, actually match her volume. It scared her. “He had his tongue down your throat and you are wasted, how could you possibly have it handled—“

“How could you?” She snapped, tears springing to her eyes as the shock of the events finally caught up to her, “How could you—you would have killed him—don’t lie to me because I know you would have, I saw your face!”

He hesitated, his mind apparently working well enough to choose his words and it infuriated her. She didn’t want him to choose his words. She didn’t want him to tell her what he knew she wanted to hear, she—she wanted the truth, she wanted him to look her in the eye and say he was sorry and mean it—

“I wanted to kill him,” He admitted lowly, and she surprised herself by allowing a sob to escape her throat, and although he tried to hide it she could see it horrified him, “But I was drunk, my inhibitions were gone, I had no control, I was angry—“

“How can you stand there and justify yourself for—“

“I was trying to get him off of you!” He argued, “You use me as a threat anyway, am I supposed to stand by and—“

“I use you as a bluff!” She argued, “Why can’t you understand, Tom, I don’t want you to use violence, I don’t want you to—to—kill someone for me, or for any reason, Tom, what if you—“

She stopped herself. She had been about to ask him what if he got caught but she stopped herself because—that shouldn’t be the concern here. She should not be worried about him getting caught for killing someone. If he killed someone—if he had killed Malfoy just then—he would deserve to be caught, he would need to be caught—if he was a murderer he needed to be in prison. 

She told herself that again and again and again. She told herself that if he ever killed he did not deserve her forgiveness, he did not deserve her protection, he did not deserve her. But she stood there and watched him in that alleyway and—she didn’t want him to kill, of course she didn’t, of course—but more than that she didn’t want him to be taken from her. She couldn’t lose him. He was her best friend, he was her family, he was hers.

And just like that she knows. Just like that her heart stops and her head whirls and her breath is jilted and uneven and she knows. Just like that her skin feels on fire with just the memory of his fingers trailing down her arm, her chest hurts, her stomach lurches, and she just knows—she knows—she knows—

She loves him. She loves him in a way that is much more, much worse, much stronger than a brother or a friend or a person. She loves him reverently and recklessly, she loves him in a way that is something like worship, like obsession, like blind terror, like clutching at the ridges in a fifty foot brick wall and hoping—praying—trusting you won’t fall but knowing you will and believing that somehow you’ll survive, like staring at a man who would kill for you and saying you don’t care as long as he stays.

And in the moment, she thinks she may hate herself just as strongly as she loves him.

“I can’t just accept this,” She said quietly, and she wasn’t sure who she was saying it to.

“Hermione,” He said calmly, and as he always did when he panicked, he hid. He masked his face and suddenly his expressions were lost to her, she couldn’t decipher his thoughts, she couldn’t tell if he was genuine or if he was lying to her again—“Let me take you home. We can talk about this in the morning.”

“What would you do to me if I wanted to tell?” She pressed, angry that he was hiding from her and allowing her anger to rule her as she always did. “What would you do if I wanted to walk right up to Lucius Malfoy and tell him you tried to kill his son, what would you do?”

“Hermione,” He started, but she couldn’t stop herself.

“Would you kill me?” She asked him. She noticed his hands had curled into fists at his side and his shoulders were tense. “Or would you threaten me with a knife, or a broken bottle, or would you hang me out a second story window, or would you break my leg? Would you—“

“Stop,” He ordered, his tone cold, “You know I would never hurt you.” 

“I don’t know anything!” She snapped, taking a step toward him, “I know that I haven’t had a life outside of you since I was seven, I know that I never had a boyfriend because I was afraid how you would react, I know I have been making excuses for everything that you do for years—“

“I have never hurt you,” He insisted evenly, and she was so angry that he was so calm. She wanted him to snap at her, to make her afraid enough to leave him, to make her not want to be his friend, she wanted him to give her a reason to cut him out of her life because—apparently—nearly killing Malfoy wasn’t enough.

“But you hurt everyone else!” She cried, “How can I stand here and let you do that, I can’t just—“

“Hermione,” He snapped, “We’ll talk about this in the morning, for now we’ll—“ She was so angry that he was trying to tell her what to do, so angry that he was trying to act like nothing was wrong when everything was wrong, so angry that she was in love with him when he was out of his mind. So when he reached for her to gently steer her out of the alley and walk her home, when his hand wrapped around her wrist, she jerked violently away.

“No!” She said, but his hand had already clamped down on her wrist, “Get your hands off of me, I’m done, Tom!” And she meant it, in that moment. She was terrified and horrified and exhausted and all she wanted was to just get away from him, to think straight, to convince herself that he wasn’t going to kill Malfoy and she didn’t love him in the way she thought she did, but—“I won’t be friends with a murderer—“

His temper snapped, and for the first time, his hands found her arms and he pushed her hard against the wall of the alleyway. Her head hit the brick with a resounding thwack, and she cried out more out of surprise and anger than true pain. She wasn’t pulling away from him anymore because she had nowhere to go—he surrounded her, trapped her, pinned her with his hands and his irrefutable gaze.

“You don’t care about Malfoy,” He hissed, and though she was too frightened to speak at the moment, she glared so fiercely at him she hoped it burned. “You’ve never cared about Malfoy, you didn’t even care about your precious Weasley when I broke his leg—“ She lifted her hands to push as hard as she could against his chest and he trapped her wrists in his hands. His grip hurt. 

“Let go of me—“ She tried, but he wasn’t listening.

“You chose to isolate yourself,” He told her, “Your friends and parents love me, I never forced you to keep me away from them—you made that choice yourself,” She pulled at her wrists but his grip only tightened further, and—god, it hurt, he was hurting her. “Because you know that there is no one on this earth who can understand you like I do.”

“Stop it,” She demanded, tears in her eyes, “Get off—“

“And I would have killed him,” He promised her, “I wanted to. I won’t apologize for wanting to rip the skin from his bones when I saw him touching you—“

“Tom—“

“—if you think you have befriended someone with the same rigid morality as you, then the only thing I apologize for is your naivety—“

“You’re—“

“And if I had,” He continued viciously, ignoring her no matter how she tried to interject, either unaware or uncaring about the bruises he would leave on her wrists or how afraid she felt, “You wouldn’t have told anyone. You would stand by me as you always have because you don’t care about others like you care about me—“

“Tom—Tom, you’re scaring me—you’re hurting me!“

His self control suddenly snapped back into place at her words, his furiously angry expression disappearing from his face along with his hands from her wrists and he let her shove him away from her as hard as she could. She was very close to crying now—hysterically crying—and he didn’t even try to say he was sorry. He just stood away from her and watched her with his masked expression, silent and sullen. Her heart was racing and she could hardly breathe—

“I don’t care about you anymore,” She spat, channeling all of her fear and her anger into her tone so he would know she meant it. She saw him swallow thickly but he made no expression, he said nothing, he just watched her and she was so afraid of what he would do.

So she ran.

She ran back up the block to the pub and she went inside and locked herself in the bathroom and called Harry, sobbing into the phone because she didn’t know who else to call. He came with Ron and Lavender and Hermione kept apologizing for ruining the New Year and Harry just rubbed her back and said—it’s okay, it’s alright, nothing is ruined—over and over, and he didn’t understand that everything was ruined.

But the next morning, when she was hung over but otherwise coherent, waking on Lavender’s couch as they all asked her what was wrong, she lied.

“Tom and I had a fight,” She answered vaguely, “And I was so drunk I overreacted.”

When Harry pushed for details, she said she was tired and asked him to take her home. He asked her if she wanted to find Tom so she could talk to him.

She told him she didn’t want to talk to Tom ever again.

—

Her wrists did bruise.

She wore long sleeves to cover them, thankful that it was winter, thankful that she didn’t have to explain the blue and purple hands that wrapped around her wrists until they slowly faded away to green and yellow and disappeared. It took two weeks.

It made her outrageously upset to look at them as they slowly faded into nonexistence. She had known that he was violent, she had known that he was capable of causing pain, but she had naively thought that he would never cause pain to her. When she was alone she would trace her finger along the shape of the bruise and remember the way it felt when he had touched her without intent to harm, without intent to scare.

She didn’t even feel sad, at first. She was just so angry. She was angry that he was such a bastard, she was angry that he had no remorse, she was angry that he wouldn’t apologize to her, even if she wouldn’t forgive him anyway. She was angry that she had been friends with him for eight years and now all of a sudden it was just over, she was angry that he had hurt her, she was angry that he had given her a reason to leave—

She hated him so much but she hated herself more, because she still missed him. And she still loved him so much.

Harry had taken to checking in on her over the days that followed the incident. The first day he drops by her parents are at work and Hermione is furiously gathering anything that belongs to Tom and setting them in a box in the living room, and Harry is watching her with an expression that is both horrified and concerned. 

“What are you doing with that?” He asked her when she finally finished and lifted the giant box in her arms and began waddling toward the front door before he intercepted her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m dropping Tom’s things off the orphanage,” She explained snappishly, “I don’t want it and I don’t want him coming here to get it.”

“Hermione,” Harry sighed, “You are not going to bring Tom’s stuff to him at the orphanage.”

She hesitated, sighing deeply and setting the box at her feet. “You’re right,” She said solemnly, and she thought she saw something like relief in Harry’s expression but when she meets his eyes she amends, “We should just burn it,” And suddenly he didn’t look relieved at all.

Especially when she began searching the kitchen for matches and lighter fluid.

“Hermione—oh my god, no—“ She found a box of matches but he plucked it from her fingers, “Stop it—can you just—“ She wasn’t listening, so he gripped her shoulders gently and made her stand still, “Hermione, didn’t you say that you overreacted?” She cast her eyed to the ground. She had said that, but she had been lying. “Maybe you should give yourself a few days, give yourself time to forgive him before you burn his things.”

“I’m not going to forgive him,” She argued, snapping her eyes back up to meet his.

“‘Mione,” Harry said reproachfully, “You and Tom were like…” He paused and seemed to rethink his words before he continued, “Tom is your best friend.”

“Not anymore,” She said sternly. Harry watched her for a moment, and she was so strongly reminded of the similar expression that Tom wore when he was trying to figure her out. It caused her anger to spike, and she pulled away from Harry’s hands. “If you’re not going to let me burn it, then I’m setting it outside as rubbish—“ 

“Hermione, please,” Harry sighed, “What could he have possibly done to get you so angry?” She paused in her track to the living room to get the box of Tom’s things. Harry remained where he stood and waited for her to reply, but she didn’t say anything. She stood still and worried her lower lip and wished he would drop the subject. “What happened?” He asked again, softer this time.

She didn’t want to tell him. But she also wanted him to understand why she was so angry. She wanted him to stop assuming she was overreacting when she wasn’t—“Malfoy showed up on New Years,” She admitted, carefully watching Harry’s expression as he listened. “Tom got into a fight with him.” Harry’s eyebrows shot up, “And—“ Her voice shook and she hated it, “It was really frightening.”

“Wait,” Harry cut in disbelievingly, “Tom got into a bar fight?”

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione snapped.

“Alright,” He said quickly, holding his hands up, “Alright, I just—look, Malfoy is a prick, alright? And Tom was probably drunk as—“

“No, Harry, you don’t—“ She cut him off, running her hands through her hair in frustration, “Tom was really scary—“ She took a deep, calming breath while Harry watched her in concern, “I was really scared.”

“Okay,” Harry acquiesced, stepping forward to place his hands comfortingly on her shoulders again, “But listen—whatever happened…” He glanced over her shoulder into the living room for a moment, “Give yourself more than a day before you start burning things, alright?”

She grit her teeth, feeling like he was making fun of her, but he continued, “You and Tom were friends for eight years,” He told her, “If you decide that whatever he did warrants breaking off that friendship, then fine. But…give yourself time to discern how you feel, first.”

She nodded, but refused to say anything because she knew that if Harry knew what Tom had almost done—and especially if Harry saw the bruises on her wrists—he would not be giving her that advice.

—

She half expected Tom to be waiting for her when she walked out of school her first day back for the year. She rehearsed everything she would say, she would show him the bruises and hope that he felt awful, hope that he felt gutted. He had told her he would never hurt her but she would show him that he had lied—

But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t waiting for her.

She walked home and expected him to show up at some point, to stand in her way and try to force her to forgive him, but he didn’t. She expected him to be waiting for her when she got home, but he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t waiting for her the next day, either. Or the next.

She remembered the way he clung to her when she told him she was done, the way he forced her to stay, the way he held so tight that he hurt her when she told him she didn’t want to be friends. And it was hard for her to reconcile those actions with his actions now. 

Every stupid fear she ever had of him abandoning her was suddenly coming to fruition, and she hated herself for feeling upset by it. She knew she should feel happy, she should feel relieved that he wasn’t popping up at every turn to try to befriend her again, but she was so angry, too, because he should be. He should be groveling for her forgiveness, she should be the one to tell him to fuck off—

She supposed she did that already, though. She supposed that was why he left her alone.

She hated him so much in that first month.

—

Lavender seemed to have stopped hating her so desperately since she had accompanied Ron and Harry to drag a sobbing, drunk Hermione back to her house on New Years Day. In fact, she seemed to have taken quite a shine to her, though Hermione couldn’t quite figure out why. But all of a sudden Lavender wasn’t avoiding her and was, in fact, going out of her way to be around her.

She sat next to her at lunch, any classes she shared she would find a seat beside her, and she even invited Hermione out to coffee with her and a group of her friends.

Hermione declined, but she somehow found herself sitting in a coffeeshop with Lavender, Padma, and Parvati one day after school and while it was—surprisingly—not horrible, she also would have rather been anywhere else.

Especially when Lavender brought up the incident.

“So, have you spoken to Tom since New Years?” She asked outright, and judging by the way Padma and Parvati turned and watched Hermione so intently told her that Lavender had already told them about it. Hermione frowned.

“No.” She answered shortly. Lavender seemed unaffected by Hermione’s irritation as she shrugged and took a sip of her coffee.

“Well, fuck him, honestly.” She said, shocking Hermione a bit. She smiled and added, “Who needs him? Boys are stupid, anyway.”

Hermione eyed all three of the girls as they laughed, and she hesitantly commented, “But…you’re dating Ron.” 

“Yes,” Lavender agreed, “And Ron is very stupid, but—I love him, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to respond, especially because she could relate. She could understand. “Maybe it should matter,” She responded weakly. Lavender pursed her lips for a moment.

“Well, whether it should matter or not, it doesn’t to me,” She told her simply, as if that was that, as if it was that easy, “I love him, so if he’s an idiot, well—I love that, too.”

“But what if it’s not that easy?” Hermione pressed, “What if its worse than just being an idiot?”

“Hermione,” Padma interjected, a bit suspiciously, “Are we talking about Lavender and Ron? Or you and Tom?”

Parvati gasped, and asked, “Are you in love with Tom?”

Hermione blanched, wondering how the hell it could have been that obvious when they had only been talking about it for thirty seconds, but before she could even deny it the three girls were practically screeching around the table, each sporting a large grin as if this revelation was meant to be celebrated.

“Oh my God,” Lavender squealed, “Why didn’t you say anything? Are you avoiding him because you—“

“I’m avoiding him because he’s horrid,” Hermione snapped, and the girls’ smiles faltered a bit at her anger. “I hate him. He’s horrible and I hate him and—“ Hermione took a very deep breath, knowing that it wasn’t right to take her anger out on these girls who were only asking innocent questions. Parvati was the first to speak.

“What did he do?” She asked. Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the table.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She said.

They didn’t push the subject. They moved on to talking about some television program that Hermione knew very little about, so she sat and listened. And while she wasn’t at all interested in the conversation, she appreciated the distraction, no matter how small it was.

She thought very briefly that she had never been bored of Tom’s conversations. Even when he talked about stupid things like palm readings or about how much he hated Shakespeare, she still found him interesting and exciting and—

Evil, she reminded herself. Awful. Violent. Cruel.

Funny, how none of those words did anything to dissuade the joy she felt at the memory of his voice.

“I love him,” Lavender had said, “So if he’s an idiot, well—I love that, too.”

Hermione tried to replace the words in her head, “If he’s a murderer—I love that, too,” but she knew it didn’t work that way. For a moment, she wished it did. But that thought was stupid and selfish and ridiculous so she banished it from her mind.

She didn’t love him, she told himself. This would be just like with Ron—she would think she loved him until suddenly she didn’t. She would love him until she stopped. 

But she never stopped.

—

She had an unsettling amount of free time now that she didn’t spend her time with Tom, and the few times she went out with Harry or Ron or Lavender was not enough to occupy all the time she would otherwise spend thinking about Tom.

She found that, if left to her own devices for too long, she missed him. Three months into the new year and she found her anger had faded, but her pride remained. He had pinned her against the wall and bruised her, he didn’t deserve to just be forgiven, so—she didn’t forgive him. She thought that was what she was supposed to do, that was what was supposed to happen.

But left to her own devices, nothing was black and white anymore. Suddenly it wasn’t as simple as Tom trying to kill someone and then yelling at her and hurting her—she remembered that he had tried to kill Malfoy for her. She remembered that they were both horrifically drunk. She remembered that she pulled him into that alleyway and he had said nothing cruel to her—thinking back to what he said he only ever said the truth. 

Left to her own devices she would remember how viciously angry he looked but also how desperate and panicked he looked. She would remember his voice, his tone, deep and firm and even. She would remember his hands on her wrists, what he said to her, she had been terrified because he was so close and everything he was saying was right and he was hurting her, but—

Left to her own devices she would think things that made her feel like she should be ashamed. She would remember things she liked that she really didn’t think she should like at all.

So, when she was alone, she liked to keep herself occupied. She became a frequent visitor of the library—or at least, more frequent—and even had a favorite table in the back corner surrounded by academic texts. She couldn’t possibly dwell on Tom Riddle’s voice or hands when she was surrounded by so much knowledge.

There was a boy at the library, too. He was close to her age, and she saw him often perusing the aisles of books back and forth, back and forth. He never seemed to find what he was looking for, but then he spent much of his time pacing the library glancing at her, so she figured he might’ve been a bit distracted. 

It was nice. It was nice because she hadn’t paid attention to any boys other than Tom for a very long time, and it was a lovely distraction—and a very flattering distraction—to have a boy take notice of her, even if only through glances in the library. And he was handsome. Not in the way Tom was, but he was tall and brawny, with tanned skin and hair cropped short. He was a bit rugged. 

It took him two weeks to speak to her. His name was Victor Krum and he was impossibly sweet. With a thick Bulgarian accent he stumbled over her name and told her he went to a boys school in the area and asked her if she wanted to go out sometimes and she thought—he was nice. It was nice. It made her feel normal and he was cute and he was interested and she thought—

She kept comparing him to Tom. His smile and his voice and his conversation. He took a book from her hands to flip to a particular page and his hands brushed hers and it just didn’t feel right, but she thought that it was worth a try, and it was nice, so—

She said yes, in the end. 

—

“I can’t believe you got Victor Bloody Krum as a boyfriend—“

“He’s not my boyfriend,” She snapped at Ron as he eyed her over the rim of his coffeecup. “We’re only dating, it’s not quite official—“

“Haven’t you been dating for, like, two months?” Harry cut in, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Yes,” She confirmed, “But…we’re just not labeling anything right now—“

“Not labeling?” Ron laughed, “You know that’s just what guys say when they want to get laid without—“

“For your information, Ronald,” She snapped, her cheeks burning, “He asked me to be his girlfriend, but I said I wanted to take it slow.” And it was true. It only took couple weeks for Victor to ask her if she would be interested in calling herself his girlfriend, and he had been so nervous and sweet and lovely—and terrifying.

She liked Victor quite a lot. He was genuine and he made her laugh and he loved to listen to her ramble about anything—he loved to listen to her talk, even if he didn’t know what she was talking about. He usually did, of course, it wasn’t as if he was unintelligent, and he was always willing to talk about anything she wanted. He was courteous and thoughtful and sweet—he was nice—she just—

She thought if she were anyone else, she would love it. If she was Lavender Brown, she would eat up every moment of affection, every compliment, every sweet gesture. Everything would be perfect. When Victor took her hand one night and asked to kiss her, it should have been perfect. When he tentatively brushed his lips against hers, and his arm curled around her waist, and his tongue ran across her lower lip—as far as first kisses go Hermione was fairly certain that was pretty spectacular. She should have felt overjoyed, dizzy, and she did feel happy, but…

He was so nice. So nice that Hermione couldn’t figure out why she didn’t love him.

“Does Tom know?” Harry asked, and Hermione couldn’t keep the scowl off her face.

“Why should Tom know?” She challenged, “I haven’t spoken to Tom since New Years.”

“Shit, really?” Ron asked, “I figured you would’ve let that go by now—“

“No, I haven’t let it go,” She snapped, but reminding herself that as far as Ron and Harry knew, she was just overreacting to a bar fight, she controlled herself. “I’m not sure if Tom knows, but I don’t particularly care either way. It’s none of his business.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “You’re right, I was just wondering. Is Victor nice?”

Hermione smiled—and her smile was genuine—and replied, “Yes, he is lovely.”

“Good,” Harry said, “You deserve to be happy.”

“But you let us know if that football-prodigy-twat hurts you,” Ron demanded, “I’ll show him what-for.”

“He’s twice your size, Ronald,” Hermione told him, and he was. Even though Victor was a year younger than Ron and Harry, he certainly didn’t look it. 

“And I have a whole army of brothers ready to defend your honor,” Ron reminded her.

“And Harry,” Harry chimed in beside her.

“And Harry,” Ron added, “Probably Ginny, too.”

Hermione just rolled her eyes. “Alright,” She said, “Well, thank you, but that won’t be necessary. Victor is harmless.” And she knew it was true.

They had never threatened to fight Tom, she realized, and he had been an actual threat.

“So, uh—“ Harry continued nervously, “I know you don’t like to talk about him, but I just thought you should know—“

“Is this about Tom?” She asked tiredly.

“Yes—“

“Harry—“ She groaned, but Harry hurried on.

“I just thought you should know he’s going to University, soon.” He told her. She stared at him and waited for him to elaborate—it was only May. “He’s doing an accelerated course of study, or something, and—well, he leaves at the beginning of June I think.”

Hermione felt something constrict in her chest and she did her best to ignore it. “Oh,” She said casually, “Well, good for him, I’m sure he’s excited.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed slowly, “He leaves June second, from King’s Cross.”

“I don’t care when he leaves, Harry—“

“Oh yeah, I know,” He told her. “Yeah, I know, just letting you know.”

She grit her teeth and ignored his tone.

—

“Do you remember my friend I told you about?” She asked Victor one day. The weather had warmed up for May and they spent a lot of their time at the park. He held her hand in his larger one and they walked alongside the water. “The one I fell out with at the beginning of the year?”

“Yes, I remember,” He assured her, “The one you say you don’t like to talk about but you talk about all the time anyway?” A genuine, teasing smile accompanied his words, and she offered a bit of a sheepish smile in return.

“Do I?” She laughed, her laugh a bit closer to a wince at the moment, “Well…He’s going to university.”

“Ah,” Victor nodded, “When does he leave?”

“The second of June.” She replied, remembering what Harry had said, “From Kings Cross.”

“You should speak to him before he leaves,” Victor told her. She stopped walking so she could meet his eyes.

“Why?” She asked, “We haven’t spoken since we fell out.”

“Closure,” Victor shrugged, “He was your friend for quite a while if I am not mistaken. It might hurt you if you let him leave without saying anything.”

“But what if it makes it worse?” She asked. Victor smiled and shrugged.

“Then I will be here to comfort you,” He said, “May I kiss you?” A short, joyous laugh bubbled up in her throat.

“You don’t have to ask every time,” She told him, and her smile remained when his lips met hers, soft and gentle and sweet. She pulled away first, “I’ll think about it,” She told him.

“You should,” He agreed, “And after, you can call me, and talk about it. Or yell about it,” 

She examined his expression, the upward tilt of his eyebrows, the sincerity in his eyes, the curl of his lips. He was so good, so nice, so sweet, and he liked her a lot. He spent all his time with her, he patiently waited for her to decide if she wanted to be his girlfriend or not, he was everything she had ever pictured in a boyfriend.

His hands were rough but his touch was gentle, soft, and careful even when they kissed. She would feel lips and tongue but never teeth, he would speak in soft, gentle timbre, he would never argue, he would never insult, he would never threaten. He listened to everything she told him, he did what she asked without question, but somehow none of it was ever enough. 

For the first time, she kissed him first. She cupped her hands around his cheeks and pressed her lips to his with an urgency he had never shown, pressing herself against him and begging him to just—stop treating her like she is precious when he kisses her, stop holding himself back, because that’s what she wants, she thinks, she wants to feel his teeth.

It doesn’t take him a moment to respond with every ounce of vigor, his hands sliding around her waist to pull her closer. She thought it was so close to what she wanted, nearly there, but then she drove her teeth into his lower lip and he flinched. She pulled away, afraid that she hurt him, but when she saw him he was grinning.

“I did not expect that,” he told her with a slight laugh. She smiled back, hoping he would kiss her again, but he didn’t. Instead he kept one arm wound around her waist and slid his other hand into his pocket, tugging her alongside him as he walked. It was probably for the best, given that they were in the middle of a public park.

She was thankful, anyway, because for a moment it hadn’t been Victor she was kissing.

—

She wasn’t sure when exactly she came to the decision, but she found herself in Kings Cross on the second of June, waiting. 

She didn’t know when Tom’s train left, all she knew was there was a specific platform that he would depart from, so she showed up at the station and sat herself on that platform and just waited all day.

She hadn’t spoken to him in five months. She hadn’t seen him in two. She didn’t even particularly know what she was going to say but she just knew that Victor was right, she would never get closure if she allowed him to leave without even saying goodbye, and—

She loved him so much. Even disregarding the love that she had been coming to understand over the past few months, she still just loved him as her best friend, and she missed him, and she wasn’t even angry anymore, not really. She was angry that he seemed not to care if he killed someone, but she was grateful no one actually died. She had been angry that he had put his hands on her but she was coming to terms with the fact that maybe she had never really been angry at all. Even if she didn’t know exactly how she felt.

She saw him walk on to the platform before he saw her. She expected to feel angry when she saw him, to remember everything and just feel furious and explode. If not anger, then she expected discomfort because of all the strange thoughts she’d been having about him, all the twisting of her stomach that occurred when she thought of his hands on her wrists, but—

She just saw her friend and she felt overwhelmed.

She approached him similar to the way someone walks past a wild animal; slowly, cautiously, quietly. Still though, when her feet came within a meter of his, he looked up from where he was seated. His eyes met hers and she saw the shock before he shuttered it away, and for a moment they did nothing but stare. Then Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a book—the one item she had taken from the box of his things and brought it with her as an excuse—and held it out to him. “This is yours.” She told him.

“No it isn’t,” He said evenly, and she hadn’t heard his voice in so long that the sound of it seemed to coat her skin and sink into her bones. “I gave that to you.”

“No,” She argued, “I stole this from your bag and I know you noticed, but you didn’t say anything so I kept it.”

“I didn’t say anything because I was giving it to you.” He clarified evenly. Hermione huffed an irritated breath.

“That is not—that’s not how you give people something—look, I stole it, it’s yours, I’m giving it back, take the damn book.” She thought she might’ve seen his lips twitch upwards but it was too quick to be sure. He reached out and took the book, closing the book he already had that he had been reading and stacking them together. 

She considered leaving. She had given him the book and now she could say that was her only reason for showing up, but in the end she took the seat beside him, turned toward him, her knees bumping against his leg. He watched her with a resigned sort of curiosity, as if he had expected her to leave.

“I’m not really angry anymore,” She admitted, going with her usual strategy of throwing everything out into the open before he could get a word in, “I’m angry that you nearly killed Malfoy—because its horrible, no matter what you think, and I would hate it if you killed someone,” Every word she spoke as firmly as she could, willing him to understand how serious she was so he wouldn’t brush her off. He didn’t seem to be brushing anything she said off, however, as he stared at her with rapt attention as if he had been waiting to hear her speak to him for as long as she had been longing to hear him speak to her. “But you didn’t,” She acquiesced, “So, I won’t hold you accountable for what you didn’t do.”

He waited, still not taking his eyes from hers, as if he hadn’t expected her to be finished. When it was clear she had nothing else to say, he asked very quietly, “Did you bruise?”

She was surprised at the question, but answered promptly, “Yeah, for two weeks,” She noticed his jaw clench.

“Then I apologize for that,” He offered.

“I’m not angry about that,” She told him. He looked unconvinced, so she continued, “We were both drunk and angry, and—“ I liked it, she thought, but refused to say it aloud, she refused to even acknowledge that the thought and occurred to her at all, “I’m not angry about that.”

“Why not?” He asked lowly, and she desperately did not want to answer that question—she didn’t even know the answer to that question yet—so she ignored it.

“Are you not sorry for Malfoy?” She asked. 

“I am sorry for frightening you,” He answered vaguely.

“Not good enough,” She snapped, “Tom, you—“

“I wanted him to bleed, Hermione,” He interrupted cuttingly, “I wanted to see him bleeding out on that table. I wanted to kill him for touching you,” His voice was low and quiet but his tone was vicious and angry. His eyes dropped from hers and he stared at her hands. “But I stopped.” He said.

“You only stopped because I punched you in the face,” She argued, “I can’t be there to stop you every time you think of doing something unspeakably evil,” He kept his eyes fixed on her hands, though she wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t meet her eyes or because he simply found her hands more fascinating at the moment. When he spoke again his tone was soft and gentle, and it curled around stomach like a rope and pulled tight.

“The only time I’ve ever wanted to kill someone was for you,” He admitted quietly. She took a deep, steadying breath through her nose, and his eyes were still fixed on her hands.

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Tom,” She told him. He lifted his hand from his lap and reached for her. He hesitated, briefly, his hand hovering over her now unbruised wrists, so she lifted her hand to meet him halfway. And she knew it was stupid, but the moment his fingers threaded through hers it sent an indescribably feeling through her. She missed touching him, she missed his voice and his hands the way she felt so at ease when he was around. And she knew it was different for him, she knew he didn’t feel quite the same—she was still a child and he was a man going to university, after all—but she didn’t care at the moment. As long as she could hold his hand it was enough for her.

“I am not trying to make you feel better,” He admitted, running his thumb along the back of her hand. “I am trying to make you understand—“ He stopped, suddenly, his eyes jumping up at the noise of an approaching train. “That’s my train,” He told her.

It was too soon. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye when she had only just begin talking to him again, but she understood that there was nothing to be done. He slid his hand from hers and slid both his books into his bag and stood, and Hermione was surprised—and honestly a bit offended—to see that he was prepared to just walk away without even a proper goodbye.

“Wait,” She called irritably, pulling herself to her feet and tugging him back around so she could stand on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck and hug him as tight as she could. His hands rested at her back in that horrible imitation of a hug he always did, but she didn’t let go. “This isn’t goodbye, okay?” She assured him. She knew he would be gone until at least Christmas and she wanted to be clear where they stood. She wanted him to leave knowing that he was still hers, “You’re still my best friend, you always will be.” 

Wrapped around him as she was, she actually felt his intake of breath, and she thought he must’ve been expecting this to be a goodbye. She thought it was supposed to be, initially. Victor had used the word closure, but after everything she couldn’t say goodbye to him. She could feel the way his shoulders slumped forward enough for him to actually wrap his arms around her fully and embrace her. He had never done that before, and all she could feel were his arms wrapped tightly around her and his cheek pressed against the side of her head and her heart pounding out of her chest. 

“Call me a lot,” She ordered, a bit breathlessly because he held her tight enough that she very nearly couldn’t breathe, “Like, every day. And come home for Christmas, Mum and Dad will gladly have you stay with us. And please, please, please behave.” She begged, and she felt his chest expand as he took a deep breath before unwinding his arms and stepping away from her, but she kept her hands firmly planted on his shoulder so she could finish. “And I’m not angry at you, but if you ever do something that stupid again I will kill you, do you understand?” 

His lips curled up at the corner into a sardonic smirk and he wrapped his hands around her wrists to pull her hands from his shoulder, his thumbs moving across where the discoloration used to be. She hoped he didn’t notice her breath hitch, but he tended to notice everything, so he probably did. “I understand,” He promised her.

She stood on that platform and watched his train leave and remembered the way it felt when he wrapped his arms around her. She held on to that memory for a very long time.


	6. Chapter 6

Tom Riddle was used to lying in wait.

Whether he was waiting to leave that godforsaken orphanage, waiting to find his father—although the only thing he knew about him was he shared his name—waiting to claw his way out of this cesspool of a city; He had learned over the course of his life that nothing was unobtainable as long as he was willing to wait.

He treated Hermione Granger in much the same way.

And when she left him standing in that alleyway—drunk and angry and alone—every particle screamed for her and every thought revolved around forcing her back, don’t let her get away, bring her back and make her understand, make her stay, don’t give her a choice—

But he knew there were certain things—the things that mattered—that needed to be dealt with in a more particular manner. Hermione Granger had never been a part of his life that he had controlled, but rather an inexplicable miracle of his existence that he had only been able to appreciate through her own free will. In the same way that one could not hold moonlight in the palm of ones hand, he could not bend her will to his to make her stay. He never could. 

The fact of the matter was she had always chosen him, not the other way around. He had thought once, when he was young, that he had finally found the way to be certain she would stay when he discovered how to comb his hair and how to speak in a gentler manner. But she had laid beside him at the park, bathed in sunlight, her hair spread about her head like a lions mane and she had told him—

“I like you better this way”

—And he had foolishly considered, in that moment, that she might be his angel. He was twelve years old and had lived a life of poverty both material and social all his life and suddenly this small girl wanted to take his hand and call him her friend—what other explanation could there be for her interest unless she was explicitly and specifically meant for him? Little girls with working parents and large houses in London didn’t befriend angry, violent orphan boys, after all. 

It had all seemed so inevitable to him, the two of them. It still did.

So when she left him there with the memories of her blazing eyes the way it felt to hold her in a way that wasn’t gentle or friendly or soft—he knew that all he could do was wait.

Wait for her to understand what he had realized long ago, wait for her to accept that she was already his, that she had been from the moment he decided he was hers. Wait for her to return to him because if he chased after her he would only drive her away—because he couldn’t apologize for something he wasn’t sorry for and he couldn’t manipulate her into believing he was. Wait for her to understand that she has to come back—that she will come back—because there is no such thing as a life without Hermione Granger.

And he could say with certainty that there was no longer such a thing as Hermione Granger without him. 

But waiting for her is certainly not pleasant. There’s more than one person to take it out on in the orphanage, but his life is also filled with distractions—A-levels, his job, sorting out where he would live in Hogwarts and what classes he would take, preparing for an accelerated course of study. He took up smoking—Hermione would be appalled—but it calmed him in a way that she had always done. He hadn’t realize how much she muted the horrors until he was suddenly without her, and he itched for her. 

He kept an eye on her, at first, subtly and in a way that she wouldn’t find fault with. But every time he saw her he just felt reminded of her absence so for his own sanity while he gave her time to discover that she wasn’t truly angry, he tried to find something to occupy his time.

And he did. He found his father.

Tucked away in Little Hangleton in a fucking manor bigger than anything Tom had ever seen lived Tom Riddle Sr, a man living off of his parents fortune in their manor, no job or responsibilities or anything that might excuse leaving his own flesh and blood to suffer through the system for his entire adolescent life—unless you count his apparent childish disregard for common adulthood responsibilities as an excuse. 

Tom went to Little Hangleton and stayed there for three days but he never visited the Riddles. He stayed in a bed and breakfast with the house in view, but he never felt like he was in the right headspace to visit—he was so angry, so outraged seeing that house and knowing it should be his, knowing there is no reason it shouldn’t be his except that his father had decided that he was not worth his time and so let him rot in that orphanage—he felt those familiar feelings of rage bubbling up in his chest and he didn’t have Hermione there to take his hand and speak to him in her dulcet tones, all he had was a packet of cigarettes to dull the anger—

He stayed there for three days, smoked through five packs of cigarettes, and went home.

Hermione would be proud, he thought. She may not be proud of his smoking habits but she would be proud that he went against every instinct that said to go in there and wrap his hands around that bastards neck until the life left his eyes and instead left. 

He could kill him later, he thought. For now he had a future at Hogwarts and a situation to rectify with Hermione and he could not risk a homicide investigation so for now it could wait.

And then sitting on that platform preparing himself for the first chance he was ever given at making a name for himself, creating a life for himself that he had always deserved but had never been given, she returns. She stands before him looking both vindicated and humiliated, a book he hardly remembers in her hands, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like five months—it feels like it’s been years. 

He’s momentarily struck by how desperately he wants to touch her. To reach out and hold her small hand in his, to thread their fingers together the way she always did, to trail his fingers over where he knew there must’ve been bruises, long since faded. He wanted to feel her hair, to twine it around his fingers, to trace the curve of her throat and the soft edge of her jaw, he wanted to kiss her—he had wanted to kiss her since before he truly knew what kissing meant—just to feel her in a way that was more than holding hands or tentative skin-on-skin gestures. He wanted to tear into her, to mold her against him, to melt into her until their bodies matched their souls—irrefutably intertwined, interlinked, impossible to discern one from the other because there was no one or other, just them, together, indisputable—

He shutters the feelings as quick as they come.

None of it feels final or secure, even when she repeats over and over that she is not angry, it still feels unsure. And he tries to tell her, tries to make himself clear, tries to make her understand—that she was his, and he would kill for her as sure as she would lie for him and he refused to be sorry for that, but he didn’t want her to fear him, she didn’t want her to hate him, he just wanted her to understand—but before he can accurately explain anything, he has to leave.

And then she holds him.

He had to remind himself that he had only just been forgiven. He had to remind himself that his wait was not truly over, not yet, because while she may have returned to him he didn’t have her, not yet. She was young and afraid and she needed time, and he could give her that—he could give her anything she wanted—so he reserved himself to this. He indulged himself in the feeling of her, in the smell of her, in the satisfaction that bloomed in his chest when he felt her heart racing, reverberating through his chest as if it was his own.

Hogwarts was waiting for him, waiting to change his life into everything he always wanted it to be. And he was content for the moment knowing that Hermione was waiting to share in those spoils with him.

It has always been inevitable, he thinks. He waits for her to see that, too.

—

If Hermione could attribute her sixteenth year to anything, she would probably attribute it to a year of sexual discovery. 

Sort of.

Because of course there’s something happening between Victor and her, and sure it’s never quite sex, but it is something, and—well—she’s figuring out there are certain things she likes very much—

She decides she likes it when his teeth scrape across her pulse. She likes it when his fingers curl around her hipbones and he grips her just a little too tightly. She likes it a lot, in fact, when he presses her against the wall and kisses her, but sometimes she thinks a bit too much about another time she was pressed against the wall, and—

She thought about that moment a lot. She always had, ever since it happened, but in light of recent events—and by that she means…certain sexual awakenings, as she had taken to calling them—she decided not to fear it any more. 

When it happened, she had been so frightened by his severe expression and the pressure on her wrists—he had always been gentle, even when she knew he was anything but, he still remained gentle with her—but what had really frightened her, what had kept her anger burning and kept her away from him was the knowledge that she hadn’t felt entirely afraid. She knew what it felt like to feel afraid, and it was a cold, anxious energy that left her fingers buzzing and her blood pumping through her legs ready to flee. But the feeling that had coiled in her gut at the timbre of his voice and the way it felt to have him so close and so intense, to feel his hands tightening on her wrists to the point where it hurt—she felt blisteringly warm in spite of the freezing cold night, her head was buzzing, her mouth was dry, she felt dizzy with—

She didn’t like to use the word, because Tom was her best friend, and he was also at University, and he would also never be interested in anyone that way. 

But she knew how she felt. And she knew that at the moment she had felt so terrified by it because—she thought shouldn’t like that. Relationships were supposed consist of butterflies in your stomach and blushing kisses and gentle caresses and not bruises and—but she was starting to understand it wasn’t that simple. 

Everything she knew about relationships and love had come from romantic movies and books or fairytales. And when she finally figured out how she felt about Tom and then he had reached for her with something akin to violence and she had liked it—it felt dirty and wrong. It felt like the last thing she should want, it felt like she was betraying some kind of moral code, or—

So she ran and she hid and she blamed her hiding on her anger—and she had been angry—but now after a time of self-reflection and thought really she didn’t think she had any reason to feel ashamed. 

But then…she just didn’t know how to voice what she wanted.

Sometimes Viktor would thread his hands into her hair and she would desperately want him to pull it, but she didn’t know how to tell him, because it still felt odd to say. And it’s not to say that kissing Viktor was anything less than extraordinary—and he could do fantastic things with his hands—but it never seemed like enough, it never seemed like—

Like Tom. 

She tried. She tried and tried and tried to love Viktor in the same way—and sometimes she thought she did. Sometimes she would remember the way he pronounced her name—he pronounced it correctly now, but it was over-enunciated, like he was always psyching himself out—and she would smile and she would think maybe this is love, a little bit. And sometimes when he greeted her he would kiss her on the corner of her mouth and his hand would curl comfortably around her waist and she would expect it and she would think maybe this is love, a little bit. And sometimes he would laugh at her stupid jokes or he would listen to her prattle on for thirty minutes about something that he had no interest in and he would talk about his classes and the most recent book he’s read but try to never talk about football because he knew she hated it, and she hoped that maybe this is love, a little bit. 

She owed it to him to try, didn’t she? She wasn’t necessarily against a life without a boyfriend, especially if she could spend that life with Tom, but—Viktor liked her quite a lot. He had said so. And she liked him quite a lot, too, she wasn’t trying to use him as a filler or as a replacement, she liked him a lot, and she wanted to believe that she could like him as much if not more than Tom—or at least differently than Tom, or—

“Hermione?” Viktor called, and she was snapped out of her reverie to focus on Viktor sitting in front of her. She had zoned out.

“Sorry,” She said quickly, “Sorry, I just…have a lot on my mind,” She smiled fleetingly, “What were you saying?”

He smiled and laughed, taking a sip of his coffee, “Oh you wouldn’t have been interested, I started on about football again,” 

She hesitated, watching the slightly teasing curl of his lips, “Oh, uh…” She started, “Who’s winning?”

“It is sweet, how you pretend to care.” He told her jokingly, laughing when she reached across the table to steal his coffee and take a sip since she had already finished hers. 

“Well, perhaps I should start talking about something terribly boring like—the entirety of my calculus textbook? I practically have it memorized now—“

“Oh, that would be fine,” He said, sounding far more sincere than Hermione expected, “I like to listen to you talk. It’s the accent, it is—what do people call it here?” He waved his hand, as if prompting the word to come to his mind, his brow furrowed in thought, “Posh?” At her practically victimized expression, he rushed to clarify, “I mean that as a compliment.”

“I do not sound posh,” She denied laughingly.

“You do,” He insisted, “It is very sexy.”

She bit her lip to stop from smiling. She was about to respond, but her phone buzzed in her pocket. Hurriedly, she pulled it out to see who was calling, and when she met Viktor’s eyes it was like he already knew who it was. “I’m sorry,” She said, “I’ll be right back—he can never speak for long anyway—“

“Of course,” He said kindly, smiling, “Go ahead, I will be here,”

She thanked him and bounded outside, wrapping her scarf around her throat—she thinks it might’ve been his once, but it had been hers for a while—and leaning against the side of the cafe as she answered. “Bonjour,” She greeted, and when he responded with a fluent sentence of french far too fast for her to understand, she laughed, “Stop showing off, you prat, I’m not fluent yet.”

“Perhaps you should answer your phone in a language you can understand, then?” He drawled. 

“I’ll hang up on you,” She warned, but they both knew it was false, “How are you? How did your exam go?”

“Fine,” He answered shortly, “Slughorn is not known for presenting particularly difficult exams.”

“From what you’ve told me about the way he treats you, I get the feeling he would pass you even if you answered every single question wrong.”

He scoffed, “He would pass me if I never even sat the exam,” He muttered.

“So what about everything else?” She prompted, “Any new friends?”

“You ask me that every time,” He told her, his tone somewhere between annoyed and amused, “No I have not made any friends—“

“What about Lestrange?” She prompted, “I may or may not have been stalking you on Facebook, and he tagged you in—“

“I hate Lestrange.” He interrupted. She sighed irritably.

“You hate everyone,” She told him. 

“I don’t hate you,” He challenged, and though his tone was borderline petulant, she felt warmed by the sentiment.

“I know,” She said, “But I’m not at university with you—does it really not bother you at all not to have any friends there?”

“No,” He replied flatly. She laughed at his monotone answer.

“Alright, fine,” She acquiesced, “I’ll stop asking.”

“No, you won’t,” He argued. 

“No, I probably won’t,” She admitted, and then hesitated for a moment. “I also saw a woman named Bellatrix Black in a lot of photos with you—“

“I hate Black as well,” He interrupted, and she thought that she probably felt far more relieved than what was justifiable, but his words calmed her just the same. 

“Well, I hope you like something there,” She said with a smile, but she knew he did. Every time he called her he only ever had negative things to say about the people he knew, but he never had anything negative to say about the establishment. And for him, that meant he loved it. She was happy to see him happy. “I miss you,” She admitted after a time of silence. 

She didn’t expect him to say it back, but she was mildly surprise when, after a beat, his voice carried through the phone, “I miss you,” Echoed back to her, a finality to his tone that sent a warmth blooming in her chest. She took a deep breath.

“You’ll be home for Christmas, won’t you?” She asked, “That’s only a few months away,”

“I’ll be home for a week,” He assured her, “I have to go,”

She frowned. He never had much time to speak on the phone—jumping between lessons, his job, and his time for studying, their phone calls were always very short—but she sighed and said, “Alright, well…I’ll talk to you later, then. I have to get back to—“ She stopped herself from saying Viktor’s name. She knew she should just say it, should just tell him, but—she didn’t particularly want to. “—to Harry and Ron,” she lied.

He hummed in response, and she was glad to know he hadn’t read into her brief hesitation. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” He assured her. 

“Goodbye,” She said, and hung up, feeling ridiculous for lying but knowing that was probably for the best anyway. The last thing she needed was Tom knowing she had a boyfriend…he would freak out.

She would freak out. 

She pocketed her phone and pushed the lie from her mind as she walked back inside, smiling at Viktor as she took a seat across from him. Caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t notice Viktor’s thoughtful expression, or the way he didn’t greet her when she returned but observed her in silence for a moment before he spoke.

And when he spoke, Hermione wished he hadn’t.

“Do you love him?” He asked, forthright, as if that wasn’t the worst thing he could possibly ask her, as if he actually wanted to know the answer when—of course he didn’t, of course he wasn’t interested in hearing her wax poetic all the things she feels when she thinks of Tom—

“No,” She blindly denied, “No, I—“ But she stopped, because Viktor was examining her in a way that wasn’t suspicious, wasn’t angry. He watched her with a quiet sort of concern that prompted her to tell the truth. “Yes,” She admitted, and when his eyes dropped from hers to the coffee in his hands she hurried to explain, “But he doesn’t love me, at all, and—“

“It is okay, Hermione,” He told her with a comforting smile, “I had a feeling, when you were so hesitant to call yourself my girlfriend, that there might be someone else.” 

“But I do like you Viktor,” She stressed, “Very much.” He smiled, still, and reached across the table to take her hand. Was he breaking up with her, she wondered? 

“I will gladly be yours for as long as you will have me,” He admitted to her, and she felt so overwhelmed by the statement she couldn’t garner a response. “But you should not be with me simply because you cannot be with him,”

“That’s—that’s not it,” She promised, “Honestly, Viktor, I love being with you—

“It is alright,” He assured her. He was too good for her, she realized, and not in the way that she wasn’t good enough for him, simply in the way that he was too kind and understanding when he should be angry with her. “I will not be angry if you decide you cannot—“

“No,” She cut in sternly, and he seemed mildly surprised at her tone. He stopped talking. “No, Viktor, I want to be with you.” 

He smiled wide and she wondered just how long she would have to keep trying before it finally came naturally for her to be with him.

But then he kissed her and she thought that maybe it wouldn’t be long.

—

Tom had not been lying when he told Hermione that he hated Lestrange. 

Lestrange was everything that Tom had grown up to resent: rich, spoiled, entitled, everything handed to him on a silver platter, and on top of it all he stands in front of Tom and thinks that he is in control, thinks that he holds some sort of power over him because of his lineage. Tom has never been able to withstand people exerting authority over him for long, and he has been trying to wait, not to be reckless, to insure that his place above Lestrange will be steady and sure. 

But that’s hard when Lestrange is always such a piece of shit.

He had been exaggerating when he said that he hated Black, however.

Bellatrix Black was irritating, surely, she sticks her nose here it doesn’t belong, she enjoys petty drama far too much, and she is engaged to the very cretin Tom wants to destroy. He thought he would hate her.

It wasn't until she approached him in the library that he found her interesting at all.

He had pegged her as an intelligent but largely unambitious woman, with an obsession for drama and unnecessary violence, likely prone to affairs in an attempt to get her husband angry. He turned out to be correct on all accounts, except—

“I could help you, you know,” She told him, and he assumed she had been sent, assumed Lestrange might be ushering her his way in an attempt to get one over on him. Tom was coming to understand that Hogwarts was filled with people like him—ambitious, violent, conniving—the schools as filled with future businessmen and politicians with borderline sociopathic tendencies, and he thrived on it. The challenge excited him—rising to the top of those who were just like him, only he was better—and they didn’t think he was better because to them he was nothing more than a lucky orphan. They wouldn’t know until he proved them wrong, until Lestrange was crushed under his foot— 

“I’m certain your fiancé would not be pleased.” He parried calmly, watching her reaction. Surprisingly, she laughed, and the laugh—as far as he could tell—was genuine.

“I could care less what pleases that man,” She told him, and after a brief hesitation, smiled at him and added, “Or any man,” 

“And yet you are engaged,” He observed, “To a man,”

“Think of it as a marriage of convenience,” She drawled, “Just until poor Rodolphus falls terribly ill and I inherit everything,”

“Wouldn’t his brother inherit it?” He prompted, pleasantly surprised but how genuine her hatred to Rodolphus seemed to be.

After a single, thoughtful moment, she shrugged, “Car crash?” She offered. 

He smiled.

And thus something of a partnership was born. She would find out whatever she could about Lestrange that he could use against him, she worked as something of a secret go between. She was still woefully irritating—she would constantly try to incite violence even though it wasn’t the time, not yet. She was always touching him, too, looping her arm through his or setting her hand on his arm or his leg and—he knew she did it because she could tell he loathed it. He entertained the idea once or twice of breaking her fingers to make her stop, but her cooperation at this point was favorable, so he just shrugged her off. 

When she was less useful, he could. 

Until then, his time at Hogwarts was spent quietly planning his path to power—because if he could have power over the people here, he would have power over everything. Most of these students were second generation business tycoons or politicians—he could have everything. Equally, he spent his time studying, learning, ensuring he was at the tope of his class, making sure that he forged his own path while tearing down the plans of others.

And he also spent time calling Hermione. Every day.

It started out he would just call her when he could, once after a test when he had nothing else to do before he went to work, when he had a few extra minutes. But whether it was because she started to get snappy with him if he didn’t call for a few days or because he found that his temperament was generally calmer and easier to control if he spoke to her for at least a few minutes, something prompted him to make that phone call a daily occurrence. 

He had thought it would be easier to be apart from her now that she wasn’t angry—to be apart from her knowing that she looked forward to his return. But somehow it made it worse. Left with nothing but the memory of the way she felt pressed against him, with nothing but her voice, tinny and echoey in the reverberation of the speaker on his phone. 

She told him she missed him every phone call, and while he didn’t say it every time, he always missed her just the same.

So walking up to his room, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called.

“Hey, Tom!” She greeted after a few rings, her tone excited but breathless. His brow furrowed just slightly.

“Why are you out of breath?” He asked, only mildly curious. 

“Oh—am I?” She asked—breathlessly, again—and cleared her throat, “Oh, nothing I was just—running.”

He paused. “Running” He echoed blandly.

“Yeah, I ran after the bus—How are you?” He noted how she tried to change the subject, and a bit curious as to why, he continued to question her.

“Are you on the bus now?” He asked.

“No, I missed it,” She said dismissively, “And you didn’t answer my question,”

“I’m well,” He answered vaguely, “Which is the same answer I give you every day.”

She laughed. His mouth was fighting to turn up at the corners, a knee-jerk reaction to hearing her laughter, but he kept it at bay out of habit. “Well, every day is different,” She argued, “And you only say you’re well because you know it’s polite.”

“What should I tell you, then?” He asked indulgently.

“I don’t know…” She started, but it was obvious she did know, so he waited for her to finish. He ascended the stairs to his building holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he fished his key out of his pocket. “I saw you went to a party last night—how was that?”

He sighed irritably, “Facebook, again?”

“Of course,” She said, “Why do you have a Facebook if you hate it so much—“

“It’s useful for networking.” He answered flippantly.

“Networking?” She echoed laughingly, “How about talking to friends—“

“You know perfectly well you are my only friend,” He told her. He reached his door and turned the lock.

“Well—I mean—you looked particularly friendly with that girl Bellatrix in her photo—“

He may have answered, but Bellatrix was lounging in his desk chair in his room, looking as if she belonged there when they both knew full well she didn’t. She smiled.

“One moment,” He spoke into the phone, and before he could hear her response he muted the phone call to direct all his attention on Black. He clenched his jaw and willed himself not to strangle her. “How did you get in?”

“Oh, please,” She scoffed, “You think I’m incapable of picking a lock?” She grinned as if that was supposed to be funny, but mostly he was just annoyed, so he continued to glare. 

“I’m busy,” He told her simply.

“Yes, alright,” She began dismissively, drawing herself to her feet, “But I have some particularly devastating news about Rodolphus that I’m certain you’d be interested to hear.” 

He hesitated, because while he was not particularly fond of being interrupted—ever—he was especially not fond of being interrupted while speaking to Hermione. However, Bella could be particularly temperamental when it came to possessing information, and while he could call Hermione back any time, it was likely that whatever Bella knew she was willing to tell him now and only now. And given that his attendance at Hogwarts was too new to start forcing information out through violent means, he had to play her game.

Still fixing her with a fierce glare, he unmuted the call. “Hermione, I have to go.”

“You have to go?—I know, Viktor, one moment more—what happened, is everything okay?”

He swore he felt his blood run cold.

It took a moment for him to reign in his thoughts, to regain control of his mind enough to hold a single finger up to Bella signaling her to wait. “Hello?” He heard Hermione call, “Are you still there? Did you mute me again?”

He turned away from Bella who was watching him closely with a bemused expression on her face, and he stepped outside, slamming the door shut behind him. He tried to control his tone, truly he did, but suddenly the thought that she had been flustered and out of breath at the beginning of the phone call and now—one moment more, Viktor?—so when he spoke it was much angrier, much harsher than he intended when he asked, “Who the fuck is Viktor?”

There was a brief pause. “Uh—what? He’s—he—are you alright?”

“Hermione,” He said slowly, warningly, “Who is Viktor?”

“He’s just—uh—well, he’s my…boyfriend, actually—“ If he thought his blood had run cold before, now it was ice. He felt his head spin, he actually had to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose and call some control back into his mind—familiar feelings of anger and jealousy were weaving their way through his veins as the word echoed in his mind—boyfriend? When the fuck did she get a boyfriend?

“When did you get a boyfriend?” He murmured, his instincts kicking in and masking his fury behind a carefully constructed ease. 

“Uh—Well—actually…since April.” His hands were shaking he was so angry. “I know you’re mad,” She said, and he just stopped himself from biting out what an understatement that was, “But you have to know why I didn’t tell you—I mean, we both know how you react when I—“

Coupled with his anger was the fear, the fear that she had been dating this—this Viktor—since April. The fear that when she had fallen ‘in love’ with Ron it had only been a couple months but this cretin—this Viktor—she had remained with since April. It had been nearly seven months, and she was—she was still with him, out of breath with him, he could only imagine what they were doing, and the image of someone’s hands on her—

He had the terrifying thought that he had waited too long. He had the horrifying realization that he may have been wrong, he may have misjudged—it was entirely possible that Hermione would not come to the same realization he had, and the thought that she might be taken from him—

“Can we just not talk about it?” He heard her say, though his mind was already far off. “I don’t like talking about this stuff with you. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Right,” He agreed blankly, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He hung up before she could respond, and when he barged back into his room Bellatrix was standing in the center looking all too innocent and all too pleased. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend—“ She started.

“Shut up,” He seethed, “I need your nephew’s phone number. Now.”

He ignored how absolutely amused she looked.

—

Hermione knew Tom was angry. She knew he could have no other reaction, that was just the way Tom was. He never liked the idea of her dating, but…somehow now, coupled with the her feelings for him, it was all so much worse. And now being with Viktor brought with it some degree of guilt, but—

Damn it, either Tom could date her or he could let her date other people. If he is uninterested in dating, then he could let her live her own goddamn life.

So if anything, it just made her try harder with Viktor.

He certainly didn’t complain, even though she’s certain he understood from her phone conversation that she had literally kept him a secret from Tom for seven months, because her version of trying hard in their relationship mostly consists of aggressively throwing herself at him every time she has the chance, so—

It’s probably not the best way to try in a relationship, but Viktor is a very good kisser, and he is very good at wiping her mind clean of guilt that she doesn’t even need to be feeling. She did not need to feel guilty for dating just because it made Tom upset.

“Are you alright?” Viktor asked her, and she’s snapped out of her thoughts, turning to him with a smile while he walked beside her. 

“I’m fine,” She assured him, “It’s lovely out,” 

“It’s freezing,” He said with a laugh. 

“Well, yes,” She agreed with a wide smile, “But lovely just the same. Should we stop for a hot chocolate?” She asked, gesturing to the little stand in the park. He nodded, taking her gloved hand in his and pulling her quickly toward the stand. It was while they waited for their coffee to be made that she slid her hands around his back and pressed her lips against his freezing cold ones. He responded excitedly, pulling her lower lip between his teeth in the way he was finally understanding that she liked, his hand pressing gently at the small of her back.

“Uh—here—“ A voice interrupted, and Viktor pulled away grinning to thank the barista who was holding out their drinks, thanking them and handing one to Hermione who was smiling shyly back. It was when she glanced over his shoulder very briefly that she saw someone sitting at one of the benches who looked awfully familiar.

“I think…” She started, furrowing her brow. “I think that’s Draco Malfoy,” She said. Viktor turned to glance at the boy sitting alone on the bench. 

“Oh,” He said simply, “I know him.”

“Do you?” She asked. In all their time dating, Malfoy had never come up before. In fact, ever since the incident on New Years, he had left her alone. She was never certain if it was for fear of Tom or because he felt like he really did owe her for saving his life. She assumed it was the former, however, considering she wasn’t sure Malfoy had any honor.

“I have played against him in football,” He explained, “He is good, but he also got knocked down and did not take it well.”

“Was he threatening to call his father?” She guessed, smiling a bit sardonically and glancing over Viktor’s shoulder again. This time she met the boy’s eyes before he looked away. “Is he looking at us?”

“Ignore him,” Viktor offered flippantly, taking a sip of his hot chocolate as she followed suit. “How did you know him?”

“Oh, he tortured me in primary school,” She said with a laugh, “Until—um,” She still felt uncomfortable mentioning Tom, ever, with Viktor so she paused and reformatted her sentence, “Until we got older and he bothered me less and less. He just liked to annoy me.”

“Perhaps he liked you?” He guessed, “He is very boy-pulling-pigtails type, I think.”

She looked at him for about twenty seconds as if he had grown a second head. “I sincerely doubt Malfoy ever had any feelings for me other than hatred,” She said blandly. Viktor smiled, his hand finding her waist again as he pressed a kiss against her temple. 

“Well, he would have to be a fool, then,” He told her. She smiled up at him for a moment, touched by his words, but then her eyes jumped to Malfoy who turned his head when she met his eyes.

“Why does he keep looking over here?” She muttered irritatedly. 

“It does not matter,” Viktor insisted calmly, tipping his hand under her chin to turn her head away from Malfoy, “Let us go, if he is bothering you,”

Hermione hummed an affirmative but before they could move, she moved up on her toes to kiss him, her arms curling around his neck, one hand carefully clutching her hot chocolate so it didn’t drop or spill. She smiled when she pulled away, “Okay,” She said.

But then she glanced over again, just to check, just out of curiosity, and Malfoy had his phone held up almost as it—“What the hell—“ She was out of Viktor’s arms and storming toward Malfoy before he even had the chance to stop her. 

“Malfoy,” She greeted tersely once she was near enough. He looked suitably terrified, though he tried to hide it.

“Granger,” He greeted in a similar tone.

“What are you doing?” She demanded tersely. His eyebrows rose high on his forehead and he pursed his lips into a frown.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Granger—“ He started to deny, but she cut him off.

“Did you take a photo of us?” His eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe—why the hell are you taking—give me your phone.”

“No,” He refused, clutching his phone to his chest.

“Give me the phone!” She demanded, leaning over to try to wrestle the phone from his grip. It was around this time she heard Viktor’s footsteps approaching from behind, as if he was about to intervene, but before he could she wrenched the phone from Malfoy’s hands.

There was a passcode.

“Unlock the phone, Malfoy,” She demanded, holding it out but not letting him hold it himself. He glowered at her.

“Fine,” He said, “You crazy bitch, here—“ He entered the passcode, and she offered him a mocking smile before turning the phone screen toward herself and looking through his photos, but—

Nothing. At least nothing of her and Viktor.

Malfoy looked irritatingly smug while she handed his phone back. She offered a very terse, completely insincere apology, and turned back to Viktor after a deep, calming breath.

“Let’s just go,” She snapped.

She had been certain she saw him taking a picture.

—

If Tom were not miles away, he would have stalked her himself. However, he had business to attend to here and he couldn’t exactly just take a train back just because—

Anyway, he didn’t have to. 

“Yeah, I saw them—“ Malfoy said over the phone, already drawing on Tom’s last nerve with his tone, “Krum was bloody useless when your girlfriend started assaulting me—“

“Malfoy,” He interrupted tiredly, and he seemed to get the message.

“Right,” He said quickly, “Right, right, uh—well, she seemed happy, to be honest?” Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean as happy as Granger can get, she always has a stick up her—“

“Malfoy.” He said, more sternly this time, and Draco was silent. “I did not ask you to see if she was happy, I asked you to find out about Krum.”

“Yeah, but I’ve told you everything about him already,” Malfoy said, sounding a bit afraid, “And, uh—well, I figured you’d want to know if Granger was—uh—okay, so—I—“

“Hermione is fine,” He assured Malfoy, his voice barely more than a growl at this point, “I need more about—“

“I got a picture of them?” Malfoy interrupted. And while normally Tom did not take kindly to being interrupted, he paused before he snapped. “If you want?” 

It was silent for a very long time. “Send me the photo,” He told him, “I will call you when I need something else.”

He hung up. He waited two torturous minutes until the vibrations of his phone alerted him to a new message and he had to count slowly down from ten before he could open it.

He saw her first. He saw her eyes shut and her hair wild and her cheeks flushed pink and then—and then—then he sees him. Viktor Krum, football prodigy, moved to London less than a year ago, virtually unimpressive on all accounts except football, for which he is revered, spoken of as if he is offering the world something glorious simply by existing and—

And Hermione has her arms wrapped around his neck and she’s smiling.

He picked up the thing closest to him, which happens to be his bedside lamp, and he hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and shatters along with his resolve.

Every bit of anger and fury and frustration that he had kept just under the surface was now bursting through his skin in violent waves. The lamp wasn’t enough, his fingers were twitching and his body felt coiled tight and—how could he have been so careless? Leaving the two of them up to fate as if fate had done anything right by him his entire life.

He should have known. He should have seen. He should have predicted that when he left she would search for someone else. Hermione who had talked about romance and love and boyfriends the moment she became a teenager, Hermione who read love poetry and called it beautiful—that was who he had left behind. Without even reminding her, without making sure she knew that she was his, without—

All this waiting and waiting and waiting and still he ends up at the end with nothing.

Seven months. The thought of what Viktor might’ve done to her in those seven months, the things she let him do—the thought that Viktor might know more than Tom ever would about what she liked, the way she wanted to be touched, what it felt like to kiss her, what she tasted like, the way it felt to be completely and utterly overwhelmed by her, with her, in her—

He couldn’t do this. He pulled his phone from his pocket and he dialed Bella’s number, and when she picked up she barely had time to greet him before he was barking out a demand. “Take Lestrange somewhere private, I’d like to meet with him.”

“Already?” She questioned, “Rather sudden.”

Something familiar coiled in his abdomen, something he hadn’t felt in a while. The excitement, the anticipation of broken bones and blood. “I’ve had enough waiting,” He answered.

He hung up before she could comment further.

—

Hermione wasn’t on Facebook for much reason other than stalking Tom to find out what he was up to.

He never posted anything himself, only appeared in pictures tagged by those he met at Hogwarts, but it was enough to see what he did and who he associated with. To see if he had friends or…a girlfriend.

This Bellatrix Black character certainly seemed attached to him. And she was beautiful, all sultry smiles and messy curls that somehow look purposeful in a way Hermione was never able to do. In every picture with Tom she would have her arm wrapped around his waist and—Hermione was not jealous, she was not—

Bellatrix friended her. Which was odd, but Hermione accepted, because it meant she could find out more about her.

But the first thing she finds out is Rodolphus Lestrange is in the hospital due to severe injuries form some sort of attack, and—

(She also saw that Bellatrix was apparently engaged to Lestrange, which she really didn’t think she had the right to be happy about that yet)

She called Tom immediately, but he didn’t answer. She waited through his automated message until she heard the beep and spoke in a rush, “Tom, I was on Facebook, and—well, Bellatrix Black friended me, for some reason, I don’t know—but, I was looking through her wall and I saw that Lestrange is in the hospital because he was attacked, and—I wanted to make sure you were okay, since you know him, and…I mean, since he was attacked, Jesus Christ…anyway call me back.” She hung up, and spent the next twenty minutes worried obsessing over Bellatrix’s page.

Bellatrix messaged her, interestingly enough.

Hello, it read, You’re Tom’s friend, right? 

Hermione hesitated only for a moment, before typing back quick response. Yes, I am. After a moment, she added, I read about Lestrange. I’m sorry.

He’ll live. Was her quick and perfunctory response. At any rate, it’s nice to finally put a face to your name. Bella replied. Hermione paused, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as a bemused smile stretched across her lips. 

Has me mentioned me? She asked.

How could he not? Bellatrix wrote, You are certainly well worth mentioning.

Hermione felt a bit confused by that comment, unsure how to response, so she merely typed back, Thank you.

I wish I could have found you sooner, Black continued, I do hate being cheated out of meeting a beautiful woman.

Hermione sat for a time in complete confusion before a sort of joyous laugh built up in her throat. I’m sorry, she typed back a bit excitedly, are you flirting with me?

Was I not obvious enough? She replied immediately. Hermione thought, for a moment, that perhaps her inane jealousy was unnecessary not only because Tom was not hers, not in that way, and he could date whoever he wanted just as she could, but also because—was Bellatrix a lesbian?

Remembering her fiancé, however, Hermione thought she might not be so lucky. And in fact, if Bella was flirting with her while she was engaged, she would most certainly be flirting with Tom, too. Feeling bold, she asked, Do you like men?

I like men like I liked dogs, Bella answered, neutered and trained to do exactly as I say.

Hermione laughed a bit unsurely, her fingers hovering over her keyboard momentarily. And Lestrange? She prompted.

Well trained. Bella answered. 

Her phone rang, Tom’s name flashing on the screen, and she immediately slammed her laptop shut to answer. “Hello? Tom?”

“Bellatrix friended you on Facebook?” Was the first thing he asked. Hermione gaped for a moment, silently.

“Your friend was attacked and is in the hospital and that’s what you’re most concerned about?” She asked, bounding to her feet so she can pace the length of her room while she spoke, feeling nervous.

“I admit I did not listen to the rest of your message.”

“Are you alright?” She pressed. He took a moment to respond, and when he did, he sounded oddly confused.

“I’m well,” He told her, “I’m not the one in the hospital,”

“Well, yes, thank God for that,” She scoffed, “I just—you knew him, and he was attacked which is—“

“He’ll live.” He answered simply, echoing Bellatrix’s sentiments from earlier. Somehow, with his nonchalant tone, it made everything feel a bit off at that moment. Hermione fell silent for a time, considering, before carefully asking.

“Tom,” She began slowly, “Are you the one who attacked him?”

He was silent.

“Oh for god’s—Tom!” She scolded, “I thought you were going to behave!”

“I am,” He assured her evenly, “It’s not as if anyone knows it was me.”

“Does Bellatrix know?” She pressed. She wasn’t entirely sure where the suspicion came from, but the fact that Bella had friended her immediately after posting about her fiancé being in the hospital, and the fact that their answers regarding Lestrange mirrored each others—

“She does,” He admitted, and Hermione was thankful that he was at least being honest.

“Is that why she was messaging me?” She asked. Tom fell silent for a moment.

“She messaged you?” He finally asked. 

“Yeah,” She agreed, “It was kind of—“ A nervous laugh bubbled up out of her throat, “—She was flirting with me, I think—well, I know. I don’t understand, if she’s engaged, then—“

“Don’t speak to her again.” He said evenly. Hermione’s smile immediately fell from her face.

“Excuse me,” She began cuttingly, “I can talk to whoever I please—“

“I am not asking for your sake, I am asking for mine,” He said tiredly. “Do not involve her any more in my life than absolutely necessary.” Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed that he was telling her what to do, or a bit flattered at the idea that involving Bellatrix with her was involving Bellatrix with his life. She decided on the former, in the end.

“Well, I like her,” Hermione said firmly, “So I’ll talk to her if I wish,” She heard him sigh tiredly, as if he was about to argue, but she hurried on, “Anyway, we’re not talking about her, we’re talking about Lestrange—his injuries are insane, Tom—what did you do?”

“Oh, would you like the details?” He asked cruelly, and Hermione immediately bristled.

“Don’t snap at me,” she warned, “That’s not what I’m asking, I’m—I know about Lestrange okay? His family is famous, and I don’t particularly like him, he’s a racist and a sexist and a homophobe, but—I mean, you broke so many bones, Tom—“

“Lestrange was a problem that needed to be rectified,” He explained evenly, “He fancied himself the top of the food chain—“

“And, what,” She interrupted, “You fancy yourself the top of the food chain instead?”

“Yes.” He affirmed sternly. She let out a loud sigh, something a bit closer to a groan, and ran a hand through her hair. 

“Won’t he tell someone?” She asked, feeling like she was losing this argument already—why did he have to be so bloody stubborn? 

“He won’t,” He assured her. “You’re overreacting,”

“Do not—“ She snapped, her voice much louder than she originally intended, “What is it with men telling me I’m overreacting—first Viktor tells me I’m overreacting about Malfoy, which I was not, and now you—“

“What?” He pressed. She huffed.

“Malfoy was stalking me or something. I thought he took a picture but—never mind.” She sighed again, this time just to calm herself. There was no point getting angry, really. She thought if it were anyone else she might be angry, but Rodolphus Lestrange was always in the papers for doing something horrible and ridiculous, and while she didn’t necessarily agree with Tom using such horrendous violence…if he was going to target anyone, Lestrange would be it.

That was probably horrible, but she was too tired to care.

“For once, can we have a conversation on the phone where one if us isn’t angry?” She asked with a bit of a laugh. She expected him to give some nonresponse, a hum or a grunt or something that required no actual words, but she was startled by his response.

“I just like to hear your voice,” He admitted quietly, “Even if you’re angry with me.” 

She felt something constrict in her chest, like his words had wound their way through her ear and dropped down to her heart and just squeezed. Warm and breathless and a bit confounded, she was only able to respond with, “Really?” He hummed in agreement, a quiet, thoughtful sound. Hermione knew that the natural thing to do would be to return the compliment or change the subject, but she felt so thrown by his sincerity that she felt a bit choked. “Well, I—I—uh…” She cleared her throat and mentally berated herself to get her shit together, “I’m glad. I—I have to go but I’ll talk to you later—it’ll be Christmas, soon.”

“Yes,” He agreed, “I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up the phone and prayed to god he didn’t notice how flustered he made her when he spoke like that.

—

He noticed.

With his anger redirected at Lestrange, who probably got more of a beating than he truly deserved but Tom wasn’t going to feel sorry for it, he viewed the situation with Viktor Krum in a new light.

Hermione was still his. Krum didn’t change that, Hermione’s stubbornness didn’t change that, the fact that Tom had left it until this moment to decide to claim her didn’t change that. She was his, had been his, would always be his, there was no changing that. But he could no longer count on waiting for her to come to him.

He had decided it when he heard the hitch in her breath when he admitted his addiction to her voice, he had decided it when he heard her stumble over her words and—that had been him, he realized. That hadn’t been Krum, it had never been Weasley, it was him. And he thought she might know, he thought she might already be aware of how they are already entwined, but for some reason she holds herself back, she shows restraint. He decided he would rip that restraint away from her if it is the last thing he does.

He had never toyed with the art of seduction before, but he’s certain it can’t be extraordinarily difficult. 

So when he goes home for the holidays—he has words with Bella before he leaves regarding what he assumed was her attempt at angering him by contacting Hermione—and he arrives on that platform to see her waiting for him, he has every intention of enacting his plan there, to start his path to push her over the edge, to make her come to him, but—

She runs to him, throws her arms around his neck and clings to him and he just forgets.

He wraps his arms around her, too, envelopes her while she also somehow seems to envelop him. He’s lost for a moment in the texture of her hair when he dips his chin to her shoulder, he’s lost in the smell of it—honey and cinnamon and—he’s lost in the feeling of her fingers, one hand digging into his back, the other winding through his hair. He turns his head so that his nose is pressed into her hair just behind her ear, so that every breath is her, but it’s not until his hand is pressed flat between her shoulder blades that he feels her heartbeat racing as quick as his own. And it’s not until he trails his nose downward, not far, he stops just below her jawline, a quick and indulgent motion before he remembers what he should be doing, remembers that he can’t seduce her if he is out of his mind with want for her.

But he feels it. The stutter in her pulse, the quick intake of breath. He pulls away and she is breathless and he smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

Her mother greeted Tom with about twenty straight minutes of crying and hugging and commenting on how much older he looked and Hermione was certain she had never seen Tom look so uncomfortable in his entire life.

“Mum,” Hermione finally interjected once she decided he had suffered enough, “Mum, he looks exactly the same—give him back—“

“We got you presents for tomorrow,” Her mother said as Hermione pulled him away, “Hermione told me you don’t like presents but that’s ridiculous—“

“Thank you, Mrs. Granger,” Tom said graciously.

“Alright, Mum, he’ll be here for like a week and a half, can you freak out later—“ Hermione interrupted, pulling Tom further away by the arm, guiding him to the stairs so she could show him to the guest room. Her hand slid down his arm to his hand and she’s not even sure he consciously twined his fingers with hers, but she’s certain that she hadn’t even realized she had done it until she was puling him upstairs by the hand.

“I’m going grocery shopping before the stores close!” Her mother called up after them, “Do you need anything?”

“No, Mum!” Hermione laughed, “We’re fine!” She pulled him into the guest room and shut the door behind them while Tom fixed her with an exasperated sort of glare. 

“Presents?” He asked disdainfully while he dropped his bag to the floor. She shrugged.

“Don’t try to get in between mum and her christmas,” She said lightly, “She said you were getting presents, so you’re getting presents.” He rolled his eyes and glanced around the room, “I didn’t buy you anything,” She assured him. He had always hated receiving presents. She had assumed it might have something to do with the way he grew up—he hated owing anyone anything, and since he never had the money to buy anyone else gifts (though she wasn't certain he would have bought anyone gifts even if he could) he didn’t like the idea of people giving him anything for free. “Well, actually I did,” She admitted, grinning when he shot her a look, “But don’t worry, you’ll hate it.”

His lips twitched upwards. “Aren’t you supposed to buy gifts that people will like?” He asked.

“You’re a special case,” She said, throwing herself on the bed as he perused the bookshelf in the room. “You’ve read all those already,” She told him. He ignored her, and she watched his finger glide across the spines of the books with avid fascination. She tore her eyes away before he noticed.

She knew it would feel weird to have him home. This would be the first time they had spent an extended amount of time together since she discovered the extent of her feelings for him, after all. But somehow everything felt different now. It started at the platform when he first arrived. She was so excited to see him she didn’t even care if she looked like a fool when she sprinted across the platform and launched herself into his arm, and then—he had held her so tight it was as if he had been waiting just as excitedly to hold her as she had been to hold him. 

She didn’t think about the way it felt when he exhaled against her neck, when he trailed his nose partway down her throat.

It was fine—she felt like she was losing her mind a bit because she was constantly looking for excuses to touch him and allow him to touch her, whether it was grabbing his hand on the bus and not letting go, running her fingers through his hair to mess it up because she always hated that stupid perfect coil he always had—but it was fine. She never had a problem really with having a crush on him even if he didn’t feel the same, even if she was doomed to only ever be his friend, it was just—

She wanted him so badly. And every time her mind wandered somewhere she truly shouldn’t be letting it wander, she would remember Viktor, and she would feel so guilty.

She had hoped, when Tom got home, she wouldn’t feel the same anymore. She thought, after everything with Viktor, the feeling of Tom’s hand in hers would be irrelevant compared to the feeling of Viktor’s. But if anything the feeling of Tom just felt even better.

“Why do you have this one?” Tom asked, pulling her from her thoughts. She refocused on him and on the book in his hands.

“It’s Pablo Neruda,” She said, “Poetry.”

“Yes.” He agreed, casting her an irritated glance, “It is also in Spanish.”

She frowned. “So?” She asked a bit petulantly.

“So, you can’t read Spanish.” He pointed out.

“I could learn,” She muttered, but the truth was she had bought it because it was pretty and she loved Neruda and she had never even tried to learn Spanish for it. She stretched her arms above her head and waited for some derisive remark as she traced the etchings in the headboard, but it never came. She looked back at Tom to see him silently observing her.

“I could teach you.” He offered after a moment. She narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t…know Spanish,” She said unsurely, because to be honest it wouldn’t be entirely unfounded for Tom to have learned Spanish in the year she hadn’t been around him. His victorious expression told her he most likely had. He opened the book to a random page and slowly approached the bed.

“No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio—I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, topaz,”

“No way,” She muttered with a smile, listening to his voice and ignoring the way her stomach twisted at the fact that he was reading poetry to her—even if he was only doing it to prove her wrong.

“—o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego—or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.” He continued, “te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,” He paused, sitting on the edge of the bed, his brow furrowing momentarily, “secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.”

“What does that mean?” She asked, sitting up and scooting over on the bed so she could read over his shoulder where the book lay in his lap. 

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,” He translated, his voice low and smooth and traveling in through her ears before dropping to wrap around her heart like a vice, “In secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

“You think it’s stupid, don’t you?” She asked, smiling, trying to diffuse the tension that she felt from listening to him read poetry to her. 

“I think its excessive,” He admitted, “I have never seen the value in poetry as you do.”

“But don’t you think it’s beautiful?” She pressed. She watched his mouth as the corners turned down.

“There are very few things I find beautiful,” He said, shutting the book and turning it over in his hands to examine the binding. Hermione shuffled a bit closer, her knees tucked up to her chest, sitting beside him on the bed and trying to discern what his suddenly very intense expression meant as he stared at the book in his hands.

“So there are some things?” She asked with a smile, “I figured you just thought everything was horrid.”

He turned his head to fix his eyes on her, “There are some things,” He admitted evenly. He didn’t pull his eyes away from her after he said it, and she got the distinct feeling that there was more to that statement than she understood. And she knew she shouldn’t push, she knew she might not like the answer if she did, but he didn’t look away, he didn’t signify he was trying to hide anything, so she asked—

“Like what?” Just to satisfy her curiosity. His dark eyes calmly roamed her face, examining her reaction, and he looked very finite, very decided when he said simply:

“You.”

She didn’t know how to respond, really, and even if she did she wasn’t certain she would be able to. The way he watched her reaction was nothing short of hungry, the way his eyes seemed to burn everywhere he looked, and the way there was so much finality in his tone—Tom just never said things like that. She would feel lucky if he admitted to missing her, she would feel lucky if he complimented her in general, and now he sat here and—it wasn’t as if it was that much of a compliment. He had only called her beautiful, it wasn’t as if he had complimented her on something that matters, but…She had the feeling beautiful didn’t mean the same thing with Tom. He had been entirely unimpressed with physicality his entire life, only deciding to care about his own looks because Hermione essentially told him to. She had the feeling it meant something very different to him when he called her beautiful.

She realized she had been staring at him in silence, neither of them moving. It shouldn’t be that startling of an admission, truly, but it was just so out of the ordinary for Tom to be so candid, for him to not only compliment her but then watch her response as if he was waiting for something. And she realized with a startling sort of urgency that she desperately wished he would move, that he would kiss her, and the thought sent such a profound amount of guilt through her because—she had a boyfriend, she should not be wishing another boy would kiss her—

Clearing her throat, she offered only an “Oh,” and noticed the way his jaw twitched while she swung her legs off the bed and stood, “Did you bring any of your textbooks home?” She asked instead, moving to his bag and unzipping it without asking. “I was wondering if when you finished this year if I could have them? I figure if you need them again later I can just give them back.”

“Yes, you can have them,” He agreed evenly. 

She internalized every romanticized thought of Tom Riddle and pretended none of it was happening, because that was truthfully the only way she could deal with the realization that she was almost entirely certain he had just been flirting with her.

Her phone chose an excellent time to chime in her pocket, and when she pulled it out, she saw Viktor’s name on her phone, and she realized she had completely forgotten that she was supposed to be meeting him. 

“Who is it?” She heard Tom ask. She briefly considered lying, but that would be stupid, so she didn’t.

“It’s…Viktor, I, um—“ She lifted a hand to her hair—which was a mess, as always, but also worse than usual— “shit, I completely forgot, uh—“

“What?” Tom asked. He had risen from the bed and approached her side already, and he reached down, his hand laying over hers on her phone and lifting it up so he could read the message. “Oh.” He deadpanned. “Tell him no.”

“What?” She scoffed, pulling her hand away and turning to face him, “No, this isn’t—we’ve already planned this, Tom.”

“Tell him you’re busy,” He said.

“I’m not busy.” She stressed, already feeling her mood falling at his irritated expression.

“I’m here,” He said.

“Yes, you are, but you’ll be fine for a couple hours, Tom—I’m not canceling my date.” He rolled his eyes as if she was the unreasonable one. “You are not going to make me feel guilty for going on a date Tom.” She seethed.

“You wouldn’t feel guilty unless you didn’t want to go,” He scoffed. Hermione grit her teeth and refused to admit that he was right.

“You know what?” She snapped, “I think you’re a little cranky from your trip, so I’m going to let you take a nap, while I get ready for my date.” He glared as she started toward the door, but as soon as she opened it his palm slammed it shut again. She was ready to snap at him, but his fingers settled around her wrist and briefly silenced her. He had a strange expression on his face.

“When will you be home?” He asked quietly. And there was something in the way he said it, something in his expression or lack thereof, something in the way he forced his voice to be quiet and calm that tipped her off, and suddenly she realized that everything he was doing was calculated. From his expression to the way he held her wrist to the placement of his body against the door, she realized that he was making a calculated approach—he was playing her. 

And it was then she realized that he was treating her like he did everyone else—he was attempting to manipulate her, to form his reactions into something she found agreeable, and she found herself so terribly angry about it all. Ever since they were children Hermione always made it clear that she hated it when he pretended to be something he wasn’t, she hated it when he pretended to be nice and pleasant and charming, and—he may not be nice and charming at the moment, but she had the thought that his comments from before had been some sort of plan, some sort of agenda, and—

“What are you doing?” She asked quietly. He looked surprised by her question. 

“What do you mean?” He replied.

“I mean, what are you doing, Tom?” She snapped, pulling her wrist away but his hand clamped down. 

“I don’t understand,” He said calmly, refusing to let go even as she continued to try and wrench her wrist out of his grasp. “I have said nothing to make you angry.”

“First of all,” She spat, stopping her struggle so she could focus on her words, “Yes you have, you always do. Second of all, everything you have said is making me angry.”

“I don’t understand,” He repeated. She pulled at her wrist again, “Stop,”

“You stop!” She fired back, “Let go of me!”

“You’re being unreasonable,” He told her. 

“God, stop it!” She snapped, “You’re acting like—like you’re planning something, would you just—would you just not make me angry on Christmas, Tom? Christmas,” She finally wrenched her hand away, but she couldn’t exactly go anywhere because he was in front of the door. “And you’re acting like you’re trying to manipulate—“

“I’m not manipulating anything,” 

“Do not lie to me,” She snapped, “I know you well enough to tell when you’re hiding something, and—“

“I’m hiding something?” He echoed, his expression finally giving way to something vicious and Hermione felt somewhat vindicated by it, “And you never hide anything from me?” He challenged, “You didn’t tell me that you had a boyfriend for months—“

“As if you wanted to know!” She cut in, “You aren’t—you aren’t that type of friend, Tom. Are you honestly telling me you want me to tell you about Viktor? You would rather I don’t date anyone and grow up old and alone.”

“No.” He denied, but made no move to elaborate.

“No?” She echoed incredulously, “Okay, so—okay, maybe I should just start filling you in about all my dates then?” His jaw twitched. “Maybe tonight, you and I can sit down with some ice cream and I can rave about how wonderful Viktor is—“ He was visibly grinding his teeth, but when he made no move to respond, she felt her anger continually spiking higher and higher. Later she might look back on the argument and realize that most of her anger didn’t even come from him hiding something, from him treating her like he was trying to manipulate her for something—most of her anger stemmed from her frustrations over this whole Viktor versus Tom situation. She was upset that he could flirt with her, whether he meant it or not, she was upset that he had the nerve to be angry about her dating when he had never made any move to pursue her himself, when he had no right to be telling her what to do.

“Maybe you want to hear about what he bought me for Christmas?” She continued, “Or maybe you want to hear about all the lovely things he said to me—he said my voice is sexy, you know—“ She was trying to make him angry, trying to make him snap back at her and stop being so ridiculous, and if the way his eyes suddenly darkened, she was on the right track, so she pursued. “Should I tell you about what we do in private?” She asked, “I’m sure you’d love to hear about everything I let him do to me—“

She had expected him to snap at her, but she hadn’t expected him to move, at least not toward her. The only time he had ever laid his hands on her in anger, she had assumed it was because of his blood-alcohol level, but she had apparently been wrong because he was entirely sober now and he certainly didn’t hold back when he moved away from the door and pushed her harshly against the wall. His hands had settled on her waist, holding her still, but it was his words and his tone that shocked her more than anything when he all but growled, “Tell me.”

“What?” She breathed, feeling stupid but too shocked by his command to say anything else. He was very, very close to her, and while he didn’t look as viciously angry as the last time he had pinned her against a wall, he was decidedly more intense. 

“I want to know,” He continued, and though her arms were free to push him away she didn’t move, “Tell me how he touches you,” She felt his hands flexing against her waist, almost as if he wanted to move them but stopped himself. She wanted to respond, to tell him to fuck off, but she had no idea how to respond—obviously he didn’t want to know, that much was clear by the way he asked, by the way his voice sounded ragged and angry. She thought he might be trying to intimidate her, and in a way, it was working, “Tell me what you liked,” He hissed into her ear, the vicious tone of his voice contrasting with the near-intimate way he pressed against her, “When he fucks you do you come with his name on your lips or is it mine?”

“You are the last thing I ever think about when I’m with Viktor,” She spat, a blatant lie to distract herself from the way her stomach had flipped inside out, lifting her hands to push against his shoulders now that she had finally been shocked into reacting.

“You are the only thing I think about,” He hissed, catching her wrists in his hands and pinning them against the wall by her head. Her breath was shaking and while she was furious she also felt on fire for entirely different reasons, especially when he leaned his forehead against the wall by her head, his lips pressed against her ear as he spoke, “I think about your voice and your skin and the way you feel and—“ His nails bit into her wrists, “I think about Viktor Krum’s hands on you and I feel like I’m losing my mind—“

“That’s enough,” Hermione cut in, “You have no right to—“

“I have every right—“ He started, pulling away to meet her eyes, but she interrupted.

“You can’t keep me from everyone, Tom, just because you don’t want to lose your friend—“

“How can you still not understand?” He said quietly, and she fell silent only because she really didn’t understand, she didn’t know what she could have missed—she knew he was jealous and angry and possessive and she knew that he was always a bit different, that their friendship was always a bit different, but—she didn’t know what he meant, what he was saying. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and when he spoke his voice was rough, “I have wanted you since before I understood I could want anything like this,”

“Tom—“ She tried to interrupt, because her stomach was tightening into pleasant knots and she felt out of control of herself.

“I don’t want to kill Krum because he’s touching what’s mine—“ He seethed, “But because it should be me touching you, not him or—“ He sighed sharply through his nose, slipping his hands from her wrists so he could slide his hands just under her jaw. Quietly, as if he was attempting to reign himself in again, he said, “If you knew what I’ve dreamt of doing to you…” And he trailed off, reconsidering his words. 

And in a reckless, hazy-minded moment, unable to think past the look in his eyes and the way he held her and the heat of his body against hers, Hermione met his eyes with a fire in her gut and said, “Tell me.”

He blinked once. Twice. And then like a damn broke, his body surrounded her and his lips met hers and she couldn’t breathe.

Her hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until she couldn’t discern herself from him. He sighed raggedly against her lips, one hand sliding down and lifting the hem of her shirt just enough so that his hand could slide underneath and press against the heated flesh of her back. She felt the sting of his teeth before his tongue slipped between her lips and—it wasn’t tentative, but it was certainly exploratory, the way he seemed to map out the contours of her mouth, discover what she liked and he was—he was a quick learner. It wasn’t long before he realized that her breath hitched when he drew his tongue along the roof of her mouth behind her teeth, before he realized that she liked it best when he used his teeth. She felt like he was still holding back, still keeping himself at bay and she felt the same way she always had when Viktor kissed her, waiting and wishing he would just let go and—

She remembered Viktor, and doing so, turned her head away from Tom. He trailed his lips along her cheek and down her throat, his hand slipping into her hair to angle her head so he had access to her throat. “Tom,” She tried to say sternly but it came out a breathy sigh, and the way he reacted to it—his hands clenched suddenly, his nails digging into her hips and his hand pulling at her hair and she even felt his teeth catch at her throat before he controlled himself—and she couldn’t even stop herself, she moaned—

He froze for only a second, before tightening his grip on her hair again and pressing his lips against her ear, letting loose an uneven breath before rasping, “Do you like it when it hurts, Hermione?” 

“I’m home!” Hermione heard her mother call, “A little help with the groceries?” The distraction gave Hermione a moment to tear away from Tom. She grasped at the door handle, throwing it open and hurrying downstairs, throwing on her coat and a pair of sneakers and not even caring how she looked—

“I have to go, mum,” Hermione said, “I have to go—I have a date with Viktor and I forgot—“

“Oh, alright, honey—are you—“ But before she could ask anything Hermione was out the door and hurrying down the road away from Tom and the suffocating heat of that room, out into the freezing cold so she could finally think clearly because god knows she can’t think clearly when his lips are on her—

And oh god, oh god, he kissed her, he wanted her, he—everything she had wanted he wanted, too—she felt overwhelmed and hot and breathless and—and angry. Because how could he wait until now? How dare he kiss her when she’s already with someone else, when she’s already—

She knows without a shadow of a doubt that she has to break up with Viktor. She knows it because she can’t control herself around Tom, he isn’t interested in controlling himself around her, and so she’s angry, she’s furious because she didn’t want to break up with Viktor but suddenly she has no choice.

Under any other circumstances she probably would have been overjoyed that Tom had kissed her. She remembered his body pressed against hers and his voice at her ear—do you like it when it hurts?—her stomach twisted into violent knots at the memory. Under any other circumstances this would have been everything she ever wanted but—

The fact of the matter is she was now facing the dilemma of either carrying the secret that Tom had kissed her and she had kissed him back, or ending it with Viktor—breaking up with him before Christmas—before she could betray him any further.

And that was Tom’s fault.

She stood at the bus stop and texted Viktor to say she was on her way and panicked the whole time.

—

Tom watched her leave with a growing sense of dread, staring at the open door for a full fifteen seconds trying to regain his self-control—because while he had a marginal amount of freedom to break things or people at university, he doubted he had that same freedom here—before he followed, intending to catch her before she left, drag her back, lock her in that guest room with him until he has finally made her understand that she can never go back to Viktor, imprint himself upon her, scorch himself into her, leave marks—

But Hermione’s mother caught him halfway out the door, calling sweetly, “Tom! Glad to see you, help me unload these groceries!” And he could hear in her tone that it wasn’t a request. He stood at the door and watched her for a beat in silence before he took a deep breath, knowing that it was as important to stay in Hermione’s mother’s favor as it was to keep an eye on Hermione. And he knew he hadn’t imagined the way she reacted to him—He had tried to hold himself back, tried not to hurt her because if he scared her away he would be pushing her straight toward Viktor, but then she had moaned while he dug his nails into her skin—

He quietly shut the door and walked toward Mrs. Granger. “Is everything alright?” She asked.

“We…” He hesitated, “We had a disagreement.” He figured outright lying would be a mistake, because Mrs. Granger was already eyeing him very closely as she packed the food into the refrigerator. He began sorting through the bags, pulling out what needed to be refrigerated and leaving the rest on the counter.

“Must have been a pretty big disagreement,” She said carefully. Tom tried to observe her without looking as if he was observing, tried to formulate a response that would distract her suspicion, but before he could she laid a hand on his arm and asked in a careful voice, “Are you alright?”

He balked a bit, for a moment. “Pardon?” 

“You seem upset.” She said simply. He stared.

“I am…fine.” He answered slowly. Mrs. Granger narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Alright,” She said carefully, “Is Hermione fine?”

He clenched his jaw. “You would need to ask her that,” He deflected. 

“I would but she just fled the house because of your disagreement.” She said blankly. He frowned. “She said she has a date with Viktor—is that what your disagreement was about?”

They stood in silence for a very long time before he finally, very slowly, answered, “…Yes.”

She sighed, pursed her lips and nodded and then continued to unload groceries in silence and Tom had no idea where he stood.

—

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Hermione said, laying her hand on Viktor’s shoulder. He smiled when he saw her, leaning in to kiss her on the lips in greeting and she froze for a second. 

“Are you alright?” He asked. Hermione hesitated for a moment.

“I—yes, I’m…fine.” His brow furrowed at her reply. She took a deep calming breath. “I…I need to…” 

“Hermione,” He said carefully, “Is everything okay?” She felt like she was going to have a panic attack. He observed her for a brief moment, and then carefully he said, “Your friend…he is home now, right?”

She took a deep breath through her nose.

“Ah, I know what that means,” He said with a small, self-deprecating smile.

“Viktor—“

“Calm down, Hermione,” He said slowly, “Let us…sit. Let’s sit.” He pulled her beside him to the bench—they had planned to see the lights and spend Christmas Eve together since she would be with her family all of Christmas, and even though he didn’t celebrate Christmas he was happy to share in her holiday cheer. He probably wouldn’t be so happy anymore. “What is wrong?” 

She hesitated, but after a moment, she said carefully everything she had planned out on the bus-ride over, “I know this is out of nowhere, and before Christmas—“

“I do not celebrate Christmas, Hermione,” He laughed lightly. 

“I know.” She insisted. “But…”

“But you are breaking up with me.” He finished. She watched him with wide, terrified eyes as he let out a heavy sigh. “I saw this coming.”

“Viktor—“ She started, but he shook his head.

“I had a feeling,” He told her, “When he came home, you would…realize this wasn’t working.”

“I’m so sorry,” She told him.

“I know you are,” He assured her gently.

“I tried to—“ 

He settled his hand on her knee in a comforting gesture, “I know you did.” He said.

“You should be angry with me,” She told him. He shook his head.

“I am angry,” He said, “Not at you. Not at him. I am angry I didn’t meet you sooner—maybe I might’ve had a chance.”

“I knew him since I was seven.” She admitted quietly. He offers a dry laugh.

“Maybe not, then.” He said. 

“I’m so—“

“Please do not be sorry, Hermione, I do not want you to be sorry.” He said, a bit exasperated. “I would…rather you tell me right away than stay with me if you do not want to be.” She wasn’t sure what to say. “And I think…I think I saw this coming.”

“I didn’t.” She muttered.

“I don’t see how you couldn’t,” He said quietly, “He is a part of you, I think. He always has been.”

“But you’re perfect,” She said a bit desperately, “You’re lovely and funny and—“

“Hermione,” He said slowly, “I know you are trying, but that only makes this worse.” She was silent, then, at a loss of what to say and what to do without making it worse. She wished he would get angry at her—she knew how to handle anger. But he just sat there looking a little sad but mostly unsurprised, and—

“Perhaps we can remain friends?” He offered tentatively, and Hermione couldn’t tell if he truly meant it or not but she hoped he did. 

“I would like that.” She said truthfully. He smiled.

He left here there, and she remained in that park for the next hour, alone, simmering in her anger, feeling horrible—she had never broken up with someone before. The only time she had ever broken herself off from anyone it had been Tom and he had deserved it. She sat there and watched the lights until arguably the worst thing happened and she started crying and as soon as she started crying, Ronald Weasley and Lavender Brown found her.

(That’s what she gets for crying in a public park)

“Hermione?” Lavender gasped, and while Hermione buried wiped at her face, she was certain that they had already seen the tears—she was well enough illuminated by the lights, after all. Lavender faltered for only a moment before hurriedly pushing Ron away, “Ron, um, how about you go—get me a hot chocolate—“

“But what about—“

“Go.” She said sternly, and then batted her eyes, “Please? I love you.” A bit hesitantly he did as she asked, and Hermione was briefly impressed but not at all surprise at the control Lavender had over Ron. 

As Lavender had been doing as of late, she sat beside Hermione and looked at her as if they were close. And Hermione considered in some way they were, even if she would have never guessed they would be a year ago. Lavender was nothing if not persistent, and from the moment she had ‘saved’ (as she referred to it) Hermione from New Years Eve, she had persisted in their friendship. While Hermione had never quite gotten on with Padma and Parvati (though they were lovely) her relationship with Lavender was surprisingly…nice.

She hadn’t had a female friend before, at least not a close one. She had sort of become friends with Ginny, and they had in the past had a couple very interesting conversations, mostly about feminist literature, Ginny already had an array of friends from her football team and Hermione had just never been interested in pursuing a relationship. But she didn’t even need to pursue anything with Lavender—just as she had with Ron, she attached herself to Hermione with a fervor that was, honestly, impressive. Fascinatingly Hermione found someone she could chat about boys with, she could relax with—it was actually kind of nice.

Except now, because Lavender plopped down beside her after Ron walked away and Hermione just wanted to be left alone to simmer in her anger.

“What happened?” Lavender asked, seemingly uncaring if she was being intrusive. Hermione huffed.

“Nothing,” She said.

“Well, obviously not nothing—Why are you here alone?” She pressed. Hermione cast her a side-long glance.

“I broke up with Viktor.” She admitted after a moment. Lavender’s expression suddenly shifted from concern to shock.

“Oh, you—oh. Oh.” She sputtered, “Just like—just like that? Wow. Before Christmas?”

Hermione dropped her head into her hands, “I know, Lavender, I’m horrible, you don’t need to remind me—god, he looked so upset and he just left, like—“

“Hey,” Lavender said, scooting closer and rubbing Hermione’s back, “It’s okay, people break up all the time—“

“Yes, but this is worse,” Hermione insisted childishly. 

“Viktor’s a total babe, he’ll find someone else in, like, a week—“

Hermione sat up and glared, “Do you honestly think that helps?” She snapped. Lavender huffed out a half laugh, “Lovely to see you think this is funny.” Hermione continued dryly, shrugging Lavender’s hand off her shoulder. 

“Okay, I’m sorry—“ Lavender said, “But, you broke up with him, I don’t really know why you’re upset—“

“I never wanted to!” Hermione said desperately, “But I didn’t have a choice.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Herm.” Lavender said. Hermione glowered at the horrendous nickname.

“I…” She hesitated, glanced in the direction Ron had gone to be sure he wasn’t going to overhear because he would probably freak out, and quietly admitted, “I kissed someone else, or—well, they kissed me, but I kissed them back.”

“What?” Lavender practically shrieked, “Oh my God, Hermione you whore—“

“I know!” Hermione cried, “I know, it’s horrible, I’m such a—“

“Oh Jesus, Hermione, I was joking,” Lavender griped, “You are so melodramatic sometimes—“

“I cheated on—“

“Hermione.” Lavender cut in sternly. “Someone kissed you. So you kissed them back, whatever, you still could have sat Viktor down and told him what happened and he would have worked it out with you—but you didn’t.” Hermione was pensively silent. “I mean, if I ever kissed someone else—which I wouldn’t, because I love Ron—“ Hermione turned her eyes skyward because that just made her feel worse, “I would explain it to him and hope that we could get past it, especially if its one time. You didn’t cheat on him.”

“I did.” Hermione insisted.

“Okay barely.” Lavender argued, “You broke it off as soon as anything happened—“

“What should I have done?” Hermione asked.

“Well—I don’t know,” Lavender shrugged, “I just think that—if someone kissed you and you kissed them back, and you want to kiss them again, then its good to break it off with Viktor. And if you loved Viktor, you’re first instinct would have been to work it out, not dump him.” Hermione frowned. 

“But I wanted to be with Viktor.” Hermione said sadly.

“Obviously you didn’t,” Lavender shrugged again, “Or you would be with him.”

“But it’s not that simple—“

“Okay, whatever, we’re going in circles—just wondering, though,” Lavender interrupted, a cheeky smile on her face, “Was it Tom?”

“What?” Hermione balked.

“Oh my god!” Lavender shrieked, setting her hands on Hermione’s arm and shaking her, “Oh my God, I knew it! He kissed you? This is incredible tell me what happened—“

“Lavender,” Hermione scolded, “This is not incredible, he has ruined everything—“

“But you love him, remember?” Lavender prompted. Hermione felt her face ache at the intensity of her scowl. 

“Are you saying that I should just forgive him for ruining my relationship?” Hermione scoffed.

“Well, uh—“ Lavender laughed disbelievingly, “Have you seen him? He is a literal angel—“

“He is a demon—“

“If he wanted to kiss me I certainly would not be saying no—“

“Lavender!” 

“What?” She laughed, “I only say it because it would never happen. He’s too busy kissing you.”

Hermione wasn’t sure why she ever thought she liked talking about boys with Lavender, because at the moment she wanted to die.

“Who is kissing who?” Ron asked, struggling to balance three hot chocolates in his arms as he approached, his face twisted in half concern, half anger. Lavender hopped to her feet and took one of the hot chocolate from his arms so he wouldn’t be struggling.

“I am kissing you,” She told him sweetly, kissing him on the lips while Hermione felt her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Ron pulled away smiling, and Hermione had to admit Lavender was certainly good at distracting him from his anger. Hermione would have just told him it was none of his business and then he probably would have exploded.

When he handed her the hot chocolate, she thanked him, “I’m, um—going to go,” She said a bit awkwardly, only because he was still looking at her as if she would burst into tears again. Ron was always awkward around crying women.

“Are you—uh—I mean are you okay? Or at least, like, not—“

“I’m fine, Ron.” She insisted, “Totally fine, just—“

“Frustrated.” Lavender supplied, then she went in to hug Hermione goodbye and whispered by her hear, “Sexually frustrated.” And if they weren’t both holding scorching hot chocolate Hermione would have shoved her. “Will you be okay getting home?” Lavender asked.

“I’m fine.” Hermione grumbled, glaring at Lavender who stuck her tongue out in return.

“Are you sure?” Ron asked, “I can—or, we can—“

“I’ll grab a bus,” Hermione assured them, “It’s not that late, just dark.”

“Alright,” He said, “Text me when you get back, yeah?”

“Okay.” She said, “Bye.”

The ride home alone was nice only because it gave her just enough time to reflect on Lavender’s advice. That girl read far too much romantic fiction to be truly healthy, so Hermione took her relationship advice with a grain of salt, but then—she had been involved with Ron for years and they seemed very happy, so there had to be some value to her words. And she had been right, in some respects. Hermione could have worked it out with Viktor but her first instinct had been to break it off—that had been her choice. And as much as she might not want to admit if, she certainly hadn’t been disagreeing when Tom kissed her in the first place.

But he was still an arsehole, and he still crossed a line, and she was still angry.

And when she got home, Tom was in the backyard smoking and of course that just made everything worse.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” She snapped, the first thing she said when she found him lurking in the dark in their backyard. She practically slammed the screen door shut behind them and was thankful that her mum and dad were in their room instead of the living room so she didn’t get an earful about her language because she really could not handle that right now.

“How was your date?” He asked, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette and watching her in the corner of his eye. His blasé attitude just made her angrier.

“Why are you smoking?” She grimaced, speaking through gritted teeth. 

“I am stressed,” He said, his tone filled with completely unnecessary sarcastic vitriol. 

“You—You’re stressed?” She laughed with no humor, “You’re stressed?”

“How was your date?” He repeated. He still hadn’t turned to face her, exactly, remained leaning against the house and staring blankly ahead somewhere into the darkness, and he was still bloody smoking, so she forgot her original plan to tell him she broke up with Viktor, she forgot her plan to attempt to make him understand that he couldn’t just take everything he wanted—and she lied instead.

“It was lovely.” She spat, and remembering Lavender’s words, she lied through her teeth some more, “I told him that you kissed me, and he was very understanding.”

“Are you taking the piss?” He asked, his voice dangerously low and his head finally turned completely toward her. He straightened up, lifting himself off the wall and dropping his cigarette before crushing it beneath his foot. 

“No, Tom, I am not taking the piss,” She said through gritted teeth, knowing that she couldn’t reprimand him for his language when she was the one who started swearing. She crossed her arms in front of her chest partly because she was angry and partly because she was freezing, “Did you think I would break up with him just because you kissed me?” 

“You kissed me back.” He reminded her evenly, approaching her slowly. She stood her ground.

“That’s irrelevant.” She spat, “And do you know why it’s irrelevant, Tom?” She was taking advantage of the fact that she knew he had feelings for her now, allowing her anger to drive her forward, “Because I am in love with Viktor—“

“No you’re not,” He argued with a condescending laugh, and he was close enough to her now that she was able to shove him hard in the chest.

“You do not get to tell me who I love, Tom!” She snapped, but before she could pull her hands back he caught her wrists. He cast a glance over her shoulder—she assumed he was glancing in the house, because she still stood in view of the living room and the curtains were open—before promptly dragging her to the shadows and pressing her against the wall again. “You—why do you always do this?”

“What did you tell him?” He asked, his voice taking on that false-pleasant tone it always did when he was leading up to something horrible, “Did you tell him that it all happened so fast and you thought of him the whole time?” She glared up at him, recognizing his approach as the same one he used earlier in his room. He noticed the change in her reaction, she could see it in the subtle shift in his expression, and he quickly changed his approach to something much more forward. His hands slid under her coat, immediately under her shirt so he could splay his hands around the skin of her waist—she pulled in a sharp breath and attributed it to the fact that his hands were freezing and not the fact that he was simply touching her. But she didn’t really feel cold at all.

“Does he know that you wanted it?” He asked, close enough that his breath spilled over her lips. He smelled like smoke. “Does he know that you liked it?” 

“You have no right to be trying to break me up with my boyfriend,” She said, refusing to back down and let him seduce her even if he was far too good at it. “You have never shown any interest in me until I started dating someone else—“

“Do you remember New Years?” He asked her. His voice was suddenly soft but his eyes were anything but. She didn’t expect the question, so she just furrowed her brow and waited for him to elaborate. “You drunkenly said you wanted to wake up to me.” He reminded her, his eyes focused on her mouth now, “I have never wanted anything as badly as I wanted that.” 

Her heart was pounding so harshly against her chest she could feel it in her head, she could hear her blood rushing past her ears. He moved one hand, sliding it around to the small of her back and drawing it slowly up her spine, but the movement was less purposeful, somehow. The moment had shifted, suddenly, to something less violent, something less calculated. No longer was he using her feelings for him to make her lose her inhibitions, but she found the quiet way he watched her mouth and the distracted way his hands moved—it was worse, now. It wasn’t angry and lustful and desperate, it was quiet and heated and overwhelming. 

“You make me so angry,” She said quietly. His eyes snapped up to meet hers, his lips twitching at one corner as if he could sense forgiveness coming.

“I know.” He said evenly. 

“Why didn’t you say anything—“

“I wanted to wait,” He explained, “Until you came to me.” She watched the way his jaw twitched while he paused between his words, “But you didn’t.” 

She couldn’t stop thinking that he had fallen in love with her the exact moment she had fallen in love with him. She thought that they had both reacted pretty stupidly—she was angry at him for months and forced herself to move on to a boy who wasn’t good for her, and he hid himself away and waited for her to seek him out. She remembered the way it felt when he kissed her, when he touched her, like her body was humming, like there was a pressure between her legs pulsing and twisting and her heart beating in her chest so loud she couldn’t think—she thought about how long she had waited for this, waited for the fantasy that he could feel the same way about her as she felt about him.

She took a deep breath in through her nose. He watched her. 

“I…” She hesitated, meeting his eyes, “I broke up with Viktor.”

She felt his reaction rather than saw it. His hands tensed against her skin, she thinks she might've seen his shoulders tense as well, but his face showed nothing. There was a very long moment before he responded. “You lied.” He surmised.

“Yes, well, you made me very angry—“ She started, but before she could finish his hands around her waist pulled her against him and his lips hungrily sought out hers. It was just as fierce and overwhelming as before, but somehow without the guilt of knowing that she really shouldn’t be doing this, she felt more in control. She wrapped her arms around his neck, one hand twining through his hair, pulling him closer. She felt like her whole body was throbbing, desperate for him to touch her more, for his hands to move. She clenched her fist in his hair to alleviate the tension and felt his exhalation against her lips. 

“You were always such a terrible liar,” He told her, nipping at the underside of her jaw and moving down her throat.

“Seems like I fooled you just now—“ She said breathlessly, and he let out something between a laugh and a hum before his hands left her waist in order to hook around the underside of her thighs and hoist her up against the wall, wrapping her legs around his hips. He was suddenly intimately pressed against her, and she felt his nails scraping across her jeans and his tongue against her throat. She could feel him hard against her, but it still felt like everything wasn’t enough, so she hooked her ankles around his hips and pressed her hips forward, moaning deep and guttural in her throat when she felt his teeth against her throat. “Tom, I—“ She started, but she couldn’t finish—I need—

“I know,” He sighed, his breath fanout across her throat, his hand smoothing up her thigh closer and closer to the apex of her thighs—

The sound of the screen door opening had her shoving him as hard as she could away from her, stumbling against the wall when her legs fell from around his waist. She thanked whatever god there was that it took her mother a couple seconds to notice the two of them standing in the shadowed part of the backyard. “Oh!” She said when she saw them, “There you are! What are you two doing outside? It’s freezing!”

“Yup,” Hermione chirped, “We’re coming inside right now,” She flashed her mother a tight-lipped smile and hurried past her inside, beelining to the stairs and taking them two at a time.

“Are you hungry?” She called after her.

“Already ate!” Hermione called back, hurrying to her bedroom and shutting and locking the door. There was a brief moment of peace before she heard someone try the doorknob and she snapped her head to watch the door. 

“Hermione, open the door.” She heard Tom tiredly command. She walked over and unlocked it, opening the door and looking over his shoulder before shutting the door again, locking it but then thinking that was probably even more suspicious, so she unlocked it and then turned to him. He had a single eyebrow raised.

“You can’t kiss me in front of my parents.” She said simply.

“Why?” He asked calmly, almost indulgently. 

“Because—Tom—“ She stressed, keeping her voice low, “You are staying at my house, if mum knew, she would freak—“

“Calm down.” 

“I am completely calm.” She insisted as he approached her slowly, looking thoroughly amused in the face of her panic, “I mean I’m sure she wouldn’t care if you were at university, but I’m pretty sure she would have a problem with you staying across the hall from me if she knew—“ His hands found her waist again, and she hadn’t realized he had even come that close. “Tom,” She said sternly, but he seemed uncaring of her tone, humming in response as he leaned down and caught her earlobe between his teeth. “Tom,” She tried again, hoping to sound more stern but it ended up coming out far breathier than she intended. He pushed her backwards, and it took her a moment to realize he was pushing her toward the bed. “No,” She said.

“No?” He echoed against her ear.

“No, Tom,” She repeated, pushing him arm’s length away from her and then pushing him further back toward the door. He frowned a bit petulantly as she opened the door and pointed out. “Go away.” She ordered.

He glanced out into the hall before turning back to her, pressing his palm against the door and closing it again, nearing her, “In a moment,” He said demurely, his hands on her ribs, his thumb stroking her side as his lips met hers again. She allowed herself a brief, indulgent moment, her own hands reaching up, running her fingers along his jawline until she could thread her fingers through the hair above his ears. 

“Okay,” She started, reaching for the doorknob, but as soon as she opened the door even an inch he flattened his palm against the wood and pushed it close, refusing to pull away from her lips. She laughed, but determinedly pulled away again, pointedly ignored his frown when she wrenched the door open and pushed him out.

She had the fleeting thought that she wasn’t sure how long she would have to keep him a secret, especially considering the original plan was for him to stay with her over the summer as well, but she refused to think about that at the moment. She thought about the way his lips felt, instead, and wished she wasn’t too terrified to cut across the hall and stay in his room for the night.


	8. Chapter 8

Tom had always hated Christmas.

This hatred wasn’t, as many may assume, routed in bitterness over the horrible Christmases spent at the orphanage. Because while the parentless children certainly lacked in christmas presents, that blasted building did not lack in christmas cheer.

In fact, he ultimately hated Christmas because of everything commercialized Christmas was. He hated the music that would play on the radio all throughout the orphanage, twenty-four-seven. He hated the tacky lights that gave him headaches, the shiny tinsel, the christmas trees that always bloody fell over (although this was useful, sometimes, if someone was annoying him) He hated the condescending way adults spoke of Santa Claus. He was so grateful that Hermione didn’t cry when he accidentally told her Santa didn’t exist, because children often did that—cry—when their hero of Christmas was revealed to be a fake. And while he usually revealed in it in the orphanage—it’s for their own good, he would say, they won’t be getting any presents as an orphan—he did not especially like it when Hermione cried.

He just hated everything there was about Christmas. He didn’t believe it was worth the hype. It was capitalist consumerism at its prime, and no matter how many people told him—oh, the real meaning of christmas is family and giving—all he had to do was sit on Oxford Street three days before Christmas to see that—no, no it was not.

Hermione loved Christmas.

She always had, even when he told her Santa wasn’t real and it was in fact her parents lying to her, she remained enamored with Christmas. He remembered when she was little and all throughout December she would be dressed in an array of Christmas jumpers, skirts, tights—it was horrendous and he hated it. And for all she hated presents—finally, someone who thought like him in that regard—she didn’t seem to have a problem with presents from her family.

“Why don’t you just open them now?” He asked her once when they were young and she was practically vibrating with excitement over the prospect of what she might get.

“Tom!” She had scolded, appalled, “It’s not Christmas yet, I can’t open them before—“

“It’s Christmas Eve,” He inputted, “Close enough.”

“Not close enough, Tom!”

She had always loved it. Loved it because of the music and the lights and the christmas trees, she loved the cold—he hated the cold but he hated the warmth, too—she loved those atrocious peppermint lattes from that horrid coffeehouse chain, she loved watching Christmas shoppers and walking through the lights at the park—Christ, she was always asking to walk through the lights at the park, and he did. Not because he liked the lights, because he didn’t, but because he was relatively fond of the way the lights caught in her hair, illuminating the fly-aways and making her look like she was glowing not only because of the illumination but because she always smiled in a very specific way around Christmas.

But he always drew the line at coming to her home on Christmas Day. She invited him in the past, and when he immediately said no she looked so confused and borderline angry that he lied and said the orphanage wouldn’t allow it. She believed him, and she never asked again. 

He just didn’t like it. He hated Christmas, he thought it was useless, and while his reasoning was that he just didn’t want to sit there and watch everyone else love Christmas, he knew that he equally just didn’t want to make her angry on a day he knew she loved.

But this year he had no choice. Because he had nowhere else to go.

Hermione woke him at the crack of dawn—she burst into the room screaming his name—Tom! Tom, wake up! Christmas morning, get out of bed!—and jumping on his bed and in all his imaginings waking up to her none of them had ever involved her being quite so infuriating. 

But he allowed her to drag him down the stairs to the presents and was at least thankful that her parents apparently decided to stay in bed and let her own her presents on her own—and his presents, because apparently her mother bought him presents, too, for some god forsaken reason. 

Hermione’s presents were largely frivolous—more poetry books, overpriced journals, clothes—he wondered why it even mattered that she receive all of this on Christmas when they could buy those for her at any moment and call it a favor instead of a present, but he kept his comments to himself. She kept excitedly shoving his gifts toward him for him to tear open, frowning when he calmly and slowly peeled up the tape to open the paper without ripping it. When he noticed it annoyed her he did it slower.

“Oh for—give that to me, you’re ridiculous—“ She scoffed, taking it from his hands and ripping it open in front of him. She carried on in that fashion, picking through the presents and ripping open both hers and his with equal excitement. His gifts were about as frivolous—an extravagant and likely far-too-expensive pen had him hating this holiday al over again—but he liked watching her excitement as she opened them. He liked watching her do anything, though.

It wasn’t until she picked up a present and said, “Oh—not that one—“ And setting it to the side that he felt truly intrigued.

“Is that from you?” He asked, remembering her warning about her present that he would hate. 

“We’ll open that last,” She said.

“We’ll open it now,” He challenged, reaching across her to retrieve it but she snatched it up and held it away from him.

“No,” She refused, “No, this one is last—“

“Give me the gift, Hermione—“

“We’re opening it last, Tom—“

He stretched across her, noticing the way that when she leaned back to keep the gift at bay she ended up on her back on the floor, and while he had been falling back into familiar patterns with her—friendly patterns, patterns he had adapted to following because he hadn’t believed she had wanted him—he was suddenly reminded of the way she felt the night before.

He almost kissed her, but she burst into laughter, and he paused.

He hadn’t realized that it had been so long since he heard her laugh like that—in the past, she always laughed about something, even if he didn’t at all find it funny—but he was certain he hadn’t heard her laugh like that since last year. Freely and loudly and unreserved, like it bubbled up and out of her throat without her permission, like she was really and genuinely delighted by him and he was caught of guard by how much he liked it when she laughed.

After a moment of the disconcerting feeling of his chest constricting, he did kiss her. There was a single, blissful moment of her lips moving against his and her fingertips trailing across his jaw—gentle and delightfully unsure—but then she pushed him away.

“Tom,” She hissed, “My mother could walk down at any—“ 

He reached above her and retrieved the present while she was lecturing him.

“Tom!” She said again, this time looking equally amused and annoyed, “That was dirty.” It hadn’t actually been his intention to begin with—truthfully he had just wanted to kiss her—but he wasn’t going to deny it. He ripped open the gift in much the same way she had teared through all of hers.

And promptly scowled.

“What the fuck is—“

“Happy Christmas!” She called loudly, a wide grin on her face as he held up the atrocious sweater.

“I am not wearing this.” He informed her.

“Yes, you are,” She countered, pulling herself to a standing position and he only just now realized that she was still dressed in her pajamas, and in her sleep shorts the entire expanse of her legs were bare. Her reached for her, but she scurried away and when his hand slid down her leg as she escaped he didn’t miss the flush of her cheeks. 

“Where are you going?” He demanded, looking back down at the hideous cardigan in his lap again with a heavy scowl on his face.

“Look!” He heard her call excitedly, and when he turned back to her he saw she donned the exact same cardigan he held in his lap—it was huge on her, the sleeves covering her hands and the hem of the sweater nearly hitting her knees. She looked horrendous.

“You bought two.” He observed, unamused at the near wickedness of her grin.

“They only had extra-large,” She told him, “The rest were sold out—“

“They were sold out of these monstrosities?” He drawled, sneering at the ridiculous garment as she approached him and sat beside him on the floor. 

“Put it on.” She demanded.

“No.”

“Tom,” She said with a laugh, snatching the sweater out of his lap and unbuttoning it as if he would actually put it on.

“I would sooner burn it.” He told her.

“I spent money on this,” she reminded him, fixing him with a look. He remained unaffected.

“That was your mistake.” He replied evenly. She outright scowled then, apparently picking up on the fact that he was absolutely serious. And he was. He had indulged her in her ridiculous present-tradition but he would be damned if he ever wore that god-forsaken—

“Either you put the sweater on or I’m not kissing you.” She said evenly, biting her lip to keep from smiling when he narrowed his eyes, “I won’t,” She promised, “Not all break.”

“I can kiss you whenever I want,” Tom parried.

“But I don’t have to kiss back,” Hermione shrugged, looking at him as if she won. He felt his mouth twitch up at the corners. That sounded like a challenge to him. 

He cast a quick glance at the stairs just to be certain her mother and father weren’t on their way down, but considering the sun hadn’t even risen yet, it was unlikely they would be down soon. He fixed his eyes on her again, enjoying the way her expression gave way to something unsure when she caught the look in his eye, and before she could say anything else he wrapped his hands around her waist and moved her so that they were half hidden behind the Christmas Tree. 

“Tom!” She scolded, but she laughed, too, even when he kissed her and she turned her head away she was still laughing and he reveled in the sound, “Not until you wear it!” She said sternly.

He ignored that, trailing his lips along her cheek and down her throat, smiling against her neck when he heard her breath hitch. But when he swept his tongue across her clavicle, she cross her arms in front of her and he glanced up to see a very stubborn, determined expression on her face. He narrowed his eyes.

“Tom,” She said sternly, and he was certain she would have said something else but he lowered his lips to her shoulder, pulling the cardigan down her arm so he could pull the skin between his teeth and he felt her let out a gasping moan, and he smiled.

She pushed him roughly away, surprising him, but then she wrapped something tightly around his shoulders and he realized belatedly it was the cardigan, but she had already crashed her lips desperately against his, so he allowed her that small victory and pushed his arms through the sleeves so he could pull her legs around his waist and smooth his hands up the bare expanse of her thighs. 

Then the bloody tree fell over, and Hermione screamed.

“What’s wrong?” He heard her mother call, and Hermione shoved him away from her at the sound of fast-approaching footsteps. 

“It’s fine, mum!” She called back, smiling at her mother’s worried face at the top of the stairs, “The tree just—fell over.”

“Christ,” Her mother heaved, laying a hand over her heart, “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry, mum,” Hermione said sheepishly, “It’s fine, go back to sleep!”

“Well, I’m awake now, aren’t I?” Her mother said, coming down the stairs and pulling Hermione’s father in tow. “How do you both like your presents?”

Tom barely stopped himself from scowling.

He kept the sweater on, thought, and promised himself he would burn it tomorrow.

—

It took Hermione hours to realize that Tom’s attentions to her throat had marked her, and she nearly had a panic attack in the bathroom wondering if her mother had seen the bruise on her shoulder and if she knew what it was—

She ran her finger over the discoloration on her shoulder, pulling her oversized cardigan tightly around her throat so it would remain hidden, and forced herself to forget how nice it had felt when he did it because—did Tom not understand how to keep a relationship a secret? Hickeys were certainly not going to keep anything secret.

She found him sat upon the couch, reading one of the books he had gotten for Christmas, and she angrily sat beside him, smacking him in the shoulder in order to startle him out of his reading. He glowered at her.

“What.” He said blankly.

“What?” She echoed, tucking her knees to her chest and sliding her toes under his thigh to warm them, pulling the shoulder of the cardigan down to shoe the bruise. His expression didn’t change much but she was certain he looked much too satisfied. “This, Tom, this is what.”

“Calm down,” He told her, not quite gently but definitely not harshly, “Your mother didn’t notice.”

“But she might eventually if you keep doing it,” She hissed back, pulling her cardigan back up to cover the bruise, but he lifted his hand to move her cardigan back over her shoulder, his thumb running across the discoloration. 

“I like it.” He told her simply.

“I don’t,” She replied. His dark eyes lifted to meet hers, and she thought belatedly it might’ve been a mistake on her part to sit so near him while trying to lecture him. 

“Don’t you?” He challenged softly, “You certainly weren’t complaining while I was doing it.”

“Tom,” She started sternly, but he continued, ignoring her.

“If I had it my way,” He said in the same low, deep tone, “You would be covered in them.” She felt her stomach twist in response, and with his thumb moving back and forth across the skin just above her collarbone, she wished for what felt like the hundredth time that her parents weren’t there.

“But you can’t,” She said, “Yet.” 

“When?” He countered quietly, and somehow she knew he wasn’t just asking when he could have her without her parents around the corner, but when they would be able to stop keeping it a secret. She drew her lower lip between her teeth.

“I don’t know,” She admitted, watching the way his jaw twitched, “I mean, I thought at first just until you go back to University, but…if you stay here in the summer, then—“

“What if I go somewhere else?” He countered calmly. She frowned.

“Where?”

“What if I had somewhere?” He prompted, awaiting her response.

“But you don’t,” She countered.

“I might.”

“Where?” She asked again, and he took a moment before he responded, his eyes narrowing and his jaw working as if he was grinding his teeth. 

“Not in London,” He admitted, “But not terribly far.” He paused thoughtfully before continuing, “You could come visit me there. No one would have to know what we do.”

“Where, Tom?” She asked for the third time.

“My father’s estate,” He answered simply. There was a beat of silence.

“Your father?” She echoed, “You—you met your father—“

“I found my father,” He corrected, “I haven’t met him.”

“You—you—“ She sputtered, and he dropped his hand from her shoulder as if he sensed where this conversation was headed, “You found you father and you didn’t even—estate? Did you say estate?”

“Yes,” He said, fixing his eyes on his book as if he was reading it, as if he was only half-invested in the conversation now. “As it turns out, he is exceedingly wealthy.”

She heard the bitterness in his tone, and she paused in her questioning—even though she had a thousand questions—to examine him as he sat in silence. Now that his hands had left her, his fingers were wrapped around either side of his book, and she didn’t miss the way his nails dug into the cover, the way his jaw was twitching as if he was grinding his teeth. She took a deep, calming breath through her nose to attempt to dissuade her curiosity and she tried to be gentle.

She laid her hand on his shoulder, her elbow draped over the back of the couch so she could comfortably rest her hand, and then she rested her chin on top of her fingers on his shoulder, her eyes fixed on the words in his book even though she didn’t read it. She felt the way the tension seeped just a little bit from his shoulders. “Do you want me to go with you to meet him?” She asked.

He hesitated, but after a moment he lifted the arm closest to her and wound it around her legs so that his hand rested on the outside of her calf and his thumb moved back and forth over the bare skin. He only hummed in response, but she was certain that was a yes. 

They didn’t say anything else. They just sat there and stared at his book even though neither of them read. She only moved to lift the hand that wasn’t on his shoulder to cup his face, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek before resting her chin atop her fingers on his shoulder again, and dropping her other hand to rest over his on her leg. After that they sat there in silence.

He stopped grinding his teeth, though, so she counted that as a success.

—

They had a limited amount of time that Tom was home, so they booked a train ticket the very next day to go to Little Hangleton (She told her mother they were going to find Tom’s father and begged her not to tell Tom she knew) and she wasn’t sure she had ever seen Tom look so…unhinged.

She had seen him angry plenty of times, but this was a strange, nervous anger that she had never seen before. He didn’t touch her, and in fact flinched away from her when she tried to take his hand at any point that morning. She wasn’t entirely certain what to do, really, so she wound up just quietly watching him stress out in the morning and try to care for him without him realizing she was caring for him because if she was too overt he just became more irritable.

When he took a shower in the morning before they were set to leave, she dug through the bag he had packed and found two packs of cigarettes and threw them in the bin. 

Gone was the pleasant atmosphere of Christmas morning. She had been so happy that morning mostly because she had been so nervous before she went to wake him up. Everything had suddenly changed so quickly that first day he came home—the way the nature of their relationship had become decidedly more intense—and she had been mildly frightened that maybe everything would suddenly be different and that terrified her.

But everything was the same. He was still difficult and sullen, it just so happened he also liked to kiss her—and bite—and she had absolutely no complaints in that respect. Or she wouldn’t, if it wasn't for the fact that she still had her parents to worry about.

Her parents had never been exactly…strict. They were often gone at work, and mostly allowed Hermione to get up to whatever she wanted—not in a spoiled way, exactly, more like they were often so busy with their careers that much of what Hermione did, so long as she wasn’t in immediate danger, didn’t matter. It was only irritating sometimes—like if she succeeded in something and they were too busy to share in it with her—but for the most part they did try, so she didn’t exactly hold any degree of bitterness toward them. It’s just she still wasn’t certain what their limit was. She didn’t want to risk any unnecessary tension between Tom and her family if she didn’t have to—and her mother discovering that Hermione and Tom were getting up to less-than-moral acts in her own house just might be her threshold.

She didn’t want to risk losing him. She realized she had that thought a lot. She didn’t want to lose him. That was always first—whether she was dealing with Tom’s anger, his violence, the nature of their relationship—she found the first thing she was concerned about was how outside influences would effect them. Her parents reaction was secondary to how it would effect Tom.

She wondered briefly if that might be unhealthy, but then she knew Tom felt largely the same way, so she wasn’t certain she cared.

At any rate, her worries about the possible changes in their relationship had shifted to worries about how long she would have to wait until she could just have him. As lovely as his mouth felt, he could only get so far before they were either interrupted or she felt that familiar terror take over and she had to stop him herself.

She wondered what his father would be like, mostly for his sake, but also because if he was kind, if he liked Tom—and who didn’t?—if he really was as wealthy as Tom said, then that estate could be the answer to their problems. Say his father takes a trip to anywhere and they could have that whole place to themselves—

It was too good to be true. She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

The train ride was mildly torturous, only because Tom still had that nervous, angry energy that made him pull away every time she tried to hold his hand, and he had never done that before. She told herself to let him be nervous—he had every right to be—but after the third time she laid her hand on his leg which kept bouncing anxiously and he jerked away she sort of lost her temper.

“Do you want me here or not?” She snapped, and immediately realized that he had every right to be anxious and she had no right to be angry at him for it, so she backpedaled, “Sorry, I—“

“I want you here.” He assured her curtly, staring out the window with a clenched jaw and clenched fists.

“Can you tell me what to do to help?” She asked quietly after a brief pause. He turned to meet her eyes suddenly, as if surprised by the question, though that didn’t show on his face. He just gazed at her for a moment.

“No,” He finally said, but it didn’t sound finite or annoyed. It sounded hesitant, like he genuinely did not know what she could do to help. She frowned momentarily, before tentatively reaching out and resting a hand on his forearm, moving up and down his arm in slow, comforting movements.

He didn’t flinch away this time.

It only took a couple hours to reach the town, and once they dropped their things off at the bed and breakfast—because they were not going to take two two-hour train rides in one day, Hermione was adamant about this, and Tom either didn’t care or was too distracted to care—they started toward the manor standing separate from the rest of the little houses in town.

“Christ,” Hermione let slip as they were approaching it, gaping a bit at the vastness of the estate before remembering herself and forcing her expression to one of calm. “Uh—what is his name?”

“Tom Riddle.” He answered shortly, and Hermione forced herself not to question that—she hadn’t realized he had been named after him.

“Alright,” She said instead, and when they reached the front door, she was the one to ring the bell. “Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” He said simply, and after a brief moment of examination, she realized that he wasn’t lying or blindly denying it—he wasn’t nervous. And she realized with a certain amount of terror that he was angry, and she was suddenly very aware of exactly how wrong this meeting could go.

The door opened before she could back out.

“Yes?” A middle-aged man asked curtly, staring down his nose at the pair of them. She was first struck but how much Tom looked like him. They were both inordinately handsome, though Riddle Sr. had a peppering of grey hair along the sides of his head and wrinkles across his forehead and around his mouth, she could imagine that in his youth he must’ve looked very much like Tom. His eyes were different, though. While Tom’s were dark, Riddle Sr.’s eyes were an unsettling bright blue.

She liked Tom’s eyes better.

“Hello,” She greeted when both men just stared at each other, “We’re sorry to bother you—“

“I have a sign that says no solicitors,” He said curtly, “If you don’t leave I will call the—“

“We’re not solicitors,” Hermione interrupted, uncaring that he seemed very irritated that she cut in, “We have nothing to sell. We’re actually here for more personal reasons—“ 

“You may leave your contact information and I will decide if you are worth my—“

“No,” She cut in sternly, and when his blue eyes narrowed she added, “Sir,” He did not look pleased, “I understand this is out of nowhere, but my name is Hermione Granger, and this is—“

“Miss Granger,” The man cut in tiredly, “And friend,” He added uncaringly. Tom narrowed his eyes. “You may believe yourselves worthy of my time but I assure you, you are not,” Hermione was taken aback by just how unpleasant he was, so she had nothing to say, “I assume you are from some sort of charity, so you may—“

“I am your son.” Tom cut in. Mr. Riddle paused mid-sentence. 

“That’s impossible.”

“Merope Gaunt is my mother.” 

Mr. Riddle’s jaw clenched and the three of them stood in silence for a moment, before he seemed to control himself. “How is Merope?” He asked.

“Dead.” Tom said blankly. “I suggest you invite us in.”

Hermione was surprised that his forward approach actually worked—she supposed his time spent with spoiled, rich arseholes in Hogwarts truly paid off—and Riddle Sr. stepped back from the door to allow them both in. “Tea?” He offered.

“No, thank you.” Tom replied smoothly, his hand pressed agains tHermione’s back as he led her in.

Hermione would never understand the nearly mechanic way in which very wealthy people interacted with each other. Nor the way Tom could replicate it so effortlessly.

She sat beside Tom on an extremely expensive looking sofa while his father sat across the table from them in an equally pricey armchair. Everything part of the house looked like something she would find in a magazine, and she couldn’t imagine the money they had spent to make it look so. She actually hated it, but she had always hated falsely perfect things.

They sat in tense silent for a moment.

“I suppose you are here for money?” Mr. Riddle guessed outright. Hermione just barely stopped herself from snapping at him what a horrible attempt at bonding with his son that was, “I assume you did not get a large inheritance from your mother.”

“I am here to connect with my father,” Tom drawled, leaning back against the sofa and resting hand along the back of the couch. She felt his thumb’s subtle movements against the back of her shoulder and she wondered if he was trying to calm her—as she was sitting very stiffly, narrowly avoiding glaring at the older Riddle—or if he was calming himself. 

“I’m certain,” Mr. Riddle responded in just as sardonic a tone, “How did your mother pass?” 

“Childbirth,” Tom replied calmly, she felt his hand flatten between her shoulder blades when she bristled because she knew Tom hated talking about his mother, and she was still uncertain if he did it for her sake or for his. His voice was remarkable flippant, “She lived long enough to give me your name.”

“Which you have yet to ask for,” She pointed out, because he hadn’t. He discovers he has a son and he doesn’t even ask his name.

But then she wondered if he had already known he had a son, and he hadn’t even cared.

Mr. Riddle glanced at her as if she was nothing more than a rodent before focusing his gaze on Tom again, “So you must’ve grown up in the system.”

“How charming,” Tom said lightly, “How you pretend that you didn’t know.” Hermione turned her eyes to her friend to watch his expression. She desperately wished now that she had asked all those questions she had wanted to ask before. She hated feeling unprepared, but—she had expected his father to at least pretend to be happy to meet his son. She hadn’t expected that he might already know.

“What is it you want,” Mr. Riddle pressed, “If you are hoping I will welcome you with open arms, you will find I am not the affectionate type.”

“Neither am I,” Tom said evenly, “Rest assured I want nothing to do with you. I am also uninterested in your money.” She felt his hand smooth down her spine, and she wished she could take his hand in hers but she wasn’t sure if he would like that while dealing with his reptile of a father.

“Then what is it you are here for.” Mr. Riddle asked cooly.

“I’m your heir,” He said simply, “I want this manor.”

There was a long, tense, chilly silence.

“How dare you?” Mr. Riddle finally said in a low tone, “You show up at my home unannounced and you demand—“

“How dare I?” Tom countered curiously, “You ask that as if I have no right. As I see it, I have far more reason to ask that than you.” Though his tone was calm, Hermione could feel the way his nails dug into her side and she laid her hand on his knee without thinking. Mr. Riddle didn’t seem to notice in his fury.

“I have done nothing,” He parried, but Hermione noticed the way his fingers were digging into the arms of his chair.

“Nothing?” Tom echoed, “Would you call ensuring a woman’s homelessness in order to hide an illegitimate child in a desperate attempt to save a relationship with a woman who would leave you anyway, nothing?”

Hermione desperately wished she knew what they were talking about, especially when Mr. Riddle’s pale skin seemed to pale even further.

“Get out,” He seethed, “Get out of my home. You are not my son—I don’t know who you are, but I have no son.”

“You think we’re lying?” Hermione balked, and when his attention was brought back to her he glanced down at her hand on Tom’s knee before promptly ignoring her and glaring at Tom once more.

“Take yourself and your whore out of my home—“ She felt as if her and Tom’s muscles coiled at exactly the same time, and she dug her nails into his knee in an attempt to dissuade him from violence on her behalf.

“Listen to me, you reptile,” She spat at the older man, who’s face had flushed red at this point as he stared between the two of them in panicked anger, “If you think the two of us want to be here in your presence, you are sadly mistaken. I’m certain no one on this earth could stand to be with you for more than five minutes before wanting to kill themselves,” The older man sputtered in anger, “We only want what you owe him—as your son whom you have left in an orphanage for his entire life—so that when you inevitably die here, alone and hated, you can finally do something useful by providing for someone other than yourself.” He scoffed, as if the prospect of giving anyone anything was all a big joke to him.

“I owe you nothing,” He sneered, standing and staring down his nose at the pair of them, “Get out of my house before I call the police.”

The two of them stood, Hermione practically trembling with rage while Tom calmly led her to the door, his hand at the small of her back and his nails digging into her skin. 

“If you ever come back here I will call the police and I will sue the both of you for slander—“

“You should reconsider,” Tom spoke calmly, turning ever so slightly once they reached the doorway in order to meet his father’s eye.

“I will reconsider when I’m dead.” He spat.

“Very well,” Tom agreed, something decidedly dark in his tone, “I’ll be in touch.” 

Riddle Sr. slammed the door shut behind them. Hermione didn’t dare say anything on their walk back to the bed and breakfast until she was absolutely certain she was far enough from that horrible man’s house that they wouldn’t be heard. 

“That went well,” Tom said, sounding strangely genuine once they had made it off Riddle’s property and were walking through the narrow streets of the town. 

“Well?” She snapped, “Well? Tom that went horribly!” He was still very tense, she noted, and his hand had not left the small of her back. She felt like she was going to explode with anger. “That miserable old—old—snake! I have never been so angry in my entire life!” The kind old woman who ran the bed and breakfast cast a worried glance at the pair of them as they entered and Tom managed a comforting smile in her direction—because he had always been quite good at pretending—while Hermione continued ranting without even noticing that woman was there. 

“How dare he?” She continued as they ascended the stairs, “How can he be so—so evil and self-absorbed that he doesn’t even care about his own son—“ Tom calmly opened the door to their room and ushered her in, “The best thing that monster can do for you is drop dead—“

He slammed the door shut and immediately shoved her against it, his lips seeking out hers with a violence that shocked her. She allowed it, for a moment, because she always liked it when he kissed her and there was something decidedly desperate about the way his tongue demanded entry to her mouth and the way his nails dug into either side of her waist. She figured her torso must be a mess of crescent-indents from all the times she had allowed him to dig his nails into her skin. 

But then it was a bit too desperate. His teeth tore harshly at her lips and then at her throat, he tore her coat off of her shoulders and slid his hands under her shirt. He pulled her so tightly against him she felt like she could barely breathe, and then he dragged his nails down her back and she let out a breathy, equally desperate moan against his lips.

It felt good—it felt too good. It felt so good that it frightened her in some way, especially with the realization that her parents were nowhere to be found and there was nothing stopping them this time. She had no excuse, nothing to halt him when she felt him tongue the bruise he had left the day before.

Kissing Viktor had always been nice, it had been pleasurable, it had been calming and lovely and—this was so different. This was overwhelming and suffocating and it’s not to say that she didn’t want it, because she did. It’s just to say that she wanted it so badly it frightened her, made her feel like she was spiraling rapidly out of control of herself.

“Tom,” She breathed, pressing her hands against his shoulders, “Tom, stop.” He caught her hands at his shoulders, his fingers circling her wrists and pinning them above her head as if he never heard her. She felt something like panic well in her throat, “Tom,” She said much more desperately, “Stop.”

He did. “Stop?” He echoed, his whole body stilling as if he was praying he heard her wrong.

“Yes, stop—“

“Why?” He asked, pulling away just enough to meet her eyes.

“Why—because I said so, Tom—“ She said frustratedly, watching the way his brow furrowed and she could see the irritation in his eyes even as he hid it, releasing her wrists and puling away so that she felt cold—“No, no,” She said, feeling caught between regret for asking him to stop and relief that he had. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him back against her, pressing her cheek against his neck.

It took him a moment, but he returned the hug, carefully wrapping his arms around her waist as if he thought she would jerk back again. She ran her fingers through his hair in an attempt to remind herself that there was nothing to be afraid of even as her heart was trying to leap out of her throat. 

She hated that she felt afraid. Every other time it had been justified—afraid of betraying Viktor, afraid of her mother stumbling in on them—but now she was just afraid for no reason. It was Tom—Tom who she loved and wanted and still every time he touched her she felt like she was losing her mind in a very good and bad way.

“Are you frightened?” He asked after a time of standing there embracing her. His breath was hot against her ear.

“No.” She lied, now that her heart had calmed. His thumbs stroked back and forth on her back and she had stopped running her fingers through his hair in order to trace patterns across his shoulder blades. She was certain they had never hugged for this long before.

“Yes, you are,” He countered evenly. 

“I just don’t want you to kiss me when you’re still mad,” She said.

“I’m not mad,” He denied.

“Yes, you are,” She countered, mimicking his tone from before. “You have every right to be,” She assured him, “That man is horrid.” He hummed in agreement, and though she could tell from his non-response that he obviously didn’t want to talk about it, she couldn’t help but ask, “What did he do to your mother?”

Tom sighed before answering, “After I was conceived, he ensured my mother was cut off from everything. I think he hoped she would die before I was born.”

“That’s horrible,” She murmured.

“He didn’t want his fiancé to find out,” He said lowly, “She left him anyway.”

“If its any consolation,” She told him, pulling away enough to see his face, “He’ll die alone.”

He huffed a half-laugh, more of an exhalation through his nose, “We all die alone.” He said flippantly.

“You won’t.” She said, “You have me.”

“You could die first,” He answered promptly, as if he wasn’t even surprised that she had basically told him she would be with him until he died. She smiled in response.

“No,” She disagreed, “You will definitely get yourself killed far before me.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow, “You’re the one who called that man a reptile in his own home.” He pointed out. Hermione really didn’t see what that had to do with anything.

“I lost my temper,” She defended.

“Your temper will get you killed,” He told her evenly. 

“Shut up,” She snapped lightheartedly, “As if you’re one to talk about a temper—“ 

“At least I keep my temper under wraps until there are no witnesses—“

“Stop it,” She said, a bit more seriously this time, “No witnesses—you’re talking like we’re discussing murder or something.” He frowned, and she felt a growing sense of unease, “Tom,” She started sternly, “Why did you tell him you would be in touch.”

“Because I will be,” He answered dismissively.

“Tom.” 

“I’m not planning on doing anything illegal,” He assured her, turning his head so he could look out the window at their left, “Perfectly legal, in fact.” She frowned, watching his expression, “He may be rich but he has an impressive amount of secrets. I plan to exploit them.”

“That doesn’t sound legal,” She said simply.

“We’ll be coming to a business decision,” He said, “Perfectly legal.” He paused a moment, and Hermione thought maybe she should say something to dissuade him but she cared very little if he made that horrible man’s life hell, so she remained silent. “It could be ours, you know.” He told her, and she followed his gaze out the window to see the manor. There was something odd in his tone at that moment, almost like he was seeking her approval or her permission though she had no idea of what.

“It’s quite ostentatious,” She said after a moment, “I don’t particularly like it.” She felt him huff a laugh more than saw it.

“A summer home, then,” He offered.

“Summer home?” She echoed, “Well, aren’t we posh—“ He kissed her again, softer this time, like he was holding himself back to avoid frightening her. She moved her hands from where they had settled on his shoulders to twine into his hair, his arms around her waist pulling her flush against him. He was being very careful, she noted, very precise, and while she knew it was for her benefit she didn’t particularly like it. She was caught between knowing this kind of kissing was safer because it kept her in control, or wanting the other kind, the kind that made her head spin and her stomach twist.

She was the first to use her tongue, this time, as his hands slid to her hips she swept her tongue across the roof of his mouth like he always did and she felt his hands tighten their grip.

He pulled away, and for a moment she wondered if she might’ve ruined it when she got afraid--she wondered if he would be like Viktor, pull back whenever he felt she might start feeling uncomfortable—but she should have known Tom would never be anything like Viktor. Instead he pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, trailing chaste kisses along her cheek until he reached her ear. “Tell me when to stop." He commanded, and she nodded breathlessly as he continued to trail those simply kisses along her jaw as he turned them around to push her toward the bed. 

“Tom,” She started unsurely.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked. The back of her knees hit the mattress and her legs buckled so that she was sat upon the edge. 

“No,” She said with much more certainty.

“Then be quiet.” He ordered, and the tone of his voice made her feel suddenly very warm, her stomach twisting into knots as he continued to trail kisses down her throat, past her collarbone, down her sternum. She felt her breath quickening when his hands slid under her shirt once more, but this time he immediately pushed it up over her stomach, his mouth bypassing the place where her shirt covered her skin and continued down the center of her stomach. His hands which circled her waist pushed her down so that she was flat against the mattress. She felt like she could hardly breathe.

He must have noticed the quickness of her breaths. “You can tell me to stop,” He murmured against her abdomen, his tongue gliding across her naval.

“No,” She gasped, “No, don’t stop, I don’t want you to,” She was almost entirely certain he smirked against the skin of her abdomen, but before she could think to look down and check, his teeth scraped over her hipbone and she was far too distracted. She felt his tongue against the space of skin just above her jeans, and without warning his teeth sank into her skin, his tongue very quickly soothing the skin and the sting of it seemed to shoot straight between her legs. She moaned, breathily, shifting restlessly beneath him while he unbuttoned her jeans and slowly undid the zipper.

He hooked his fingers around the waistband and peeled them down her legs, his lips skipping the place she felt like she was throbbing and instead moving down her thigh while he removed her jeans. She couldn’t help but think, briefly, that this whole affair felt rather apologetic, and she wondered if this was his version of damage control from her panic before. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t that she didn’t like it, it was that she did, it was that she liked it too much and she hadn’t really felt that lost in anything before, but then her jeans were pulled off and she felt his mouth, his tongue, moving over her underwear and she forgot everything else.

Viktor had done this once. She remembered the way his hands had soothed her thighs while he did, the tentative movements of his tongue. While they had never had sex, he had still been her first in a lot of other ways, so she thought she knew what to expect when Tom started, but she very quickly found that she had no idea.

In juxtaposition to the soothing way Viktor’s hands had moved gently up and down her thighs, Tom’s hand hooked around her hips and forced her to be still when she tried to press against his mouth. His teeth caught the edge of her underwear and he pulled down, his finger hooking under the wides and pulling them slowly off while she squirmed on the bed. She looked down for the first time—she had been staring at the ceiling trying to make sense of everything she was feeling—and almost wished she hadn’t when she met his eyes. He pulled her knickers over her knees so that they could fall to the floor and shot her a truly devilish smile before his mouth touched her uncovered sex and she threw her head back with a moan.

The first few moments were very similar to Viktor’s—not quite as fumbling but certainly just as exploratory, like he was attempting to figure out what she liked, mapping her out, discovering what reaction every touch or every lick garnered. The difference lied in the way Tom was relentless—his hands pinning her to the mattress no matter how she tried to buck against him, his tongue’s unrelenting torture, the way he licked the length of her before circling her clit—she felt like the room was spinning around her, she could do little more than throw her head back and moan her assent, and when his teeth ever-so-slightly scraped against her clit, she half-sobbed out a moan.

He took one hand off her hip, pressing her down into the mattress almost irritably when she immediately lifted her hips toward him. “Stay still,” He ordered with his lips still pressed against her, his voice no more than a rasp. She whimpered, a whimper that faded into a near-pitiful moan when his finger slid into her. It took no more than his tongue dragging across her clit and his finger curling inside of her—Viktor had certainly never done that—for her to come undone. She was certain she had never come quite so intensely before.

It took her a moment to come down from her high, to realize that while his mouth had left her sex to press wet kisses to the inside of her thighs, his finger was still moving within her, drawing her through her orgasm. When his mouth met here again, his tongue drawing up over her clit, she jerked violently against him. 

“Okay, okay,” She breathed, feeling far too sensitive for him to continue, “Stop.”

He did, and instead began tracing kisses back up over her stomach, up her sternum, over her collarbone. Her hands smoothed over his shoulders, still breathless when she asked, “Should I—“ 

She intended to ask if she should do something now—if she should return the favor—but he shook his head, pressed his lips against her cheek and then back down her throat, his hands smoothing up her sides and then down. 

Once she no longer felt like she was gasping for air, she cupped his jaw and pulled him closer to kiss him, tasting herself on his tongue and wondering how he would be if he wasn’t holding back, if he wasn’t trying not to scare her.

She wondered when she would stop feeling so scared.

—

“Did you take out my cigarettes?” He asked her later that night. Hermione looked up from her book, watching him where he stood by the open window while she wondered if he honestly planned on smoking right there in front of her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” She shrugged, and she almost left it at that, but after a moment she lifted her eyes from her book to meet his again, “Were you planning on smoking?”

She noticed his lips twitching upward. “No,” He said, his tone suggesting he meant completely the opposite.

“If you keep smoking, I am not going to kiss you.” She told him. He scoffed and even had the audacity to roll his eyes, turning his face away to gaze out the window. She realized he must be looking at the manor.

“I can kiss you whenever I want,” He muttered.

“We’ll see,” She said. He sat by the window, and he sat there for a very long time, gazing out at the manor. She fell asleep to the image of him, and there was something lovely and warming about Tom’s profile bathed in moonlight being the last thing she saw before she fell asleep. 

She woke up before him the next morning, the sun streaming in through the window arousing her from her sleep. She saw him on the edge of the bed, his back to her, and feeling a bit irritated that he had felt the need to fall asleep as far from her as he could manage, she shifted closer to him on the bed, winding her arm around his waist. She pressed her nose into his back between his shoulder blades, breathing him in. He shifted, turning in her hold to peer at her, bleary eyed.

“Go back to sleep,” She told him, shifting around him so that her head rested on his shoulder when he shifted to lay on his back. He didn’t argue, falling asleep within seconds, and she remained awake, tracing her fingers up the thin cotton of his shirt over his chest, over his shoulder, down his arm. Half asleep, he caught her hand to stop her absent tracing and trapped her hand against his chest.

She wondered if he would ever understand how much she loved him in that moment.


	9. Chapter 9

Tom spent an inordinate amount of his time back at Hogwarts thinking of her.

It was mildly irritating how thoughts of her would sneak up on him. He was able to keep his focus on studies, for the most part, but whenever he allowed his thoughts to drift for even a moment they would always drift to her. It wasn’t altogether unusual—she had been a rather large part of his life from the first day she threatened to fight him when they were children—but it was somehow more distracting now. 

He attributed that to the newfound physicality of their relationship, at first. Because while he had certainly imagined kissing her before, he had not expected to like it quite as much as he did. Physical expressions of feelings had never been his expertise, and had especially never been something he cared much for. He had liked holding her hand when they were children because it was an easy and effortless way to publicly display some type of ownership over her. He had liked people to see when he held her hand, liked people to know they were friends. It was in part due to the fact that he had never had a friend before, and while he had never been particularly interested in friendship he had a particular interest in her, but beyond that, physical interaction made him exceedingly uncomfortable. At least, with anyone but her. He discovered quite quickly that he liked any way she touched him. He especially liked it when she let him touch her.

But she was more delicate than he thought. He had seen a flash of something when he clenched his fist in her hair the first time he kissed her, something that made him feel the same type of excitement he felt in a fight, something that coiled tight around his stomach and quickened his heartbeat. But that something wasn’t there when he had pressed her against the door of their room in Little Hangleton and tried to lose himself in her to distract himself from the fury of facing his father. She had, for the second time in his life, been afraid of him. He had seen that expression once before, the night she had left him for five months. 

So he had attempted to make amends, in a way. To remind her she was his without inspiring that petrified expression on her face. To distract himself from the cold feeling that settled in his chest as he stared down the man he might’ve called ‘father.’ 

He wasn’t certain he had ever felt quite as satisfied as when he watched her, flushed and trembling as she came undone because of him. She writhed a lot, squirmed underneath him, and he wasn’t sure he had been precisely as gentle as he had originally intended, but the way she moaned under him had him imagining particularly non-gentle scenarios and it had taken ever ounce of his self control not to ignore her when she said stop, because he knew she would like it if he kept going, he knew she would like it if she just let him have her—

But she had said stop, and while he relished in the fear of the children from the orphanage or his classmates at Hogwarts, he had never wanted it from her. He never wanted her to be afraid of him.

He had made the right choice in holding back, he discovered, when he woke in the morning to her wrapped around him like he was some kind of stuffed animal. Her head felt somewhat heavy on his chest, and she was too warm, and he had to brush her hair out of his mouth and even then it still tickled his chin, but every discomforting sensation was a reminder she was there. He wasn’t accustomed to sleeping near anyone, and he certainly wasn’t accustomed to prolonged physical contact—the combination of both was unsettling at best, but it was endurable only because it was her. Every expansion of her chest as she breathed felt like a victory, a reassurance that she was still his, and when he shifted so he could lift his hand to lay atop her head to keep her blasted hair from getting in his face, he felt her fingers curl around his side and he felt so suddenly, unexpectedly despondent at the thought of how fleeting that moment was. 

But it wasn’t long, however, before he realized his frequent thoughts of her in his time at university were not entirely due to the newfound physical aspects of their relationship. The taste of her lips, the sounds she made when his teeth met her shoulder, the simultaneously discomforting and fulfilling feeling of her wrapped around him were thoughts that certainly occurred to him often. But more often he found himself thinking about her voice, about the way her nose wrinkled when he said something she disagreed with, the way she huffed before drawing her hair up into a ridiculous bun on the top of her head when it got in her way while reading. It’s not to say he didn’t also think of the slope of her throat when she tossed her head back in ecstasy, or the path drops of water took over her collarbone after she took a shower, its just to say that he thought of them equally as often as everything else. 

“What sources did you cite for the third question?” He heard a voice ask, silencing his memories for a moment. His eyes lifted from the text of his book to meet the worried, blue eyes of Abraxas Malfoy. 

“Do your own work, Malfoy,” He said evenly, secretly delighting in the way Malfoy’s eyes dropped down to his work hurriedly, as if worried he had offended him. 

“I don’t see why you always ask Riddle, Malfoy,” Lestrange spoke from the other side of the table. Tom’s eyes snapped to examine him as he spoke. “You’d be better off asking Bella for help, and we all know she’s helpless.”

“I’m not the one who failed our last final, Rodolphus,” Bella stated calmly, not turning her eyes form her reading. Lestrange’s lip curled and he cast a quick, subtle glance at Tom before he spoke.

“That’s because I couldn’t study in the hospital,” Lestrange spat. 

“Wish you’d go back,” She muttered in response.

“I’ll send you there if—“

“Lestrange.” Tom cut in chillingly. The boy in question met his gaze, and while Tom could see he was angry—possibly even furious—he shut his mouth and remained silent at the warning. Bella raised her eyes to glance at Tom for a moment in obvious amusement before dropping her gaze back to her book, but the glance went unnoticed as Tom continued to examine Lestrange.

While violence had worked spectacularly in scaring Lestrange into complacency, Tom couldn’t help but think that the situation was spectacularly temporary. He recognized a lot of traits in Lestrange—his rage and intelligence and desperation for power and wealth were things Tom could identify quite strongly with—but the difference between them lied in Lestrange’s upbringing. He was spoiled, and reckless, and entitled, born with everything yet still believing he hadn’t been given enough. He was used to getting everything he wanted by throwing a large enough tantrum. That was dangerous.

Tom was beginning to think, for the moment, it might be better to give Lestrange a sense of power. It would be better to allow Lestrange a feeling of superiority for the tentative years of their alliance, because until Tom was sufficiently connected, he would be unable to deal with him properly through anything except fear. And while fear was generally reliable, there were times when fear inspired desperation, which was far less agreeable.Tom had given up on the idea of taming him, and instead had decided to subdue him until he could inevitably get rid of him—or let Bella do it, if she meant what she said about marrying him and killing him off. He didn’t particularly care what she did with him.

It was with that thought in mind—the thought of Lestrange’s obvious distress at being held under Tom’s thumb—that he had decided to include him on the issue of his father. 

He knew that if he took the legal route and requested a paternity test it would be impossible for his father to deny him anything he was owed. The house would be his once he died, just as Tom wanted. The only problem with involving legal matters was the fact that he would then have to wait for the old man to die. He wanted him dead, now. He wanted the manor for the summer. He wanted what was his; the manor, the money, and Hermione. He could have them all before the year was out if the old man just died.

But it would be too suspicious to kill him if he had just got done forcing him to take a paternity test, particularly because he was certain his father would raise hell in attempts to avoid the test and discredit Tom himself. In the end, if he was willing to wait, Tom knew he would be given everything he deserved, but he had grown so tired of waiting, and he had gotten a bit drunk on the feeling of victory when you take what you want instead of waiting for it to come for you. His time with Hermione had inspired that feeling in him.

So what he needed to do was force his father to include him in his will through less legal means. He would need a solicitor present, of course, in order to validate the will itself once he was included, but that’s where Lestrange could come in. The Lestrange family had plenty of dirty dealings with the law, and plenty of lawyers willing to lie on their behalf. He would use one, with Lestrange present just to make him feel he has something on him, some sort of nonexistent power to keep him satiated until Tom could safely expose of him.

He would leave it for a few months. Then he could return and kill his useless father and take what he was owed.

Lestrange took it well. Tom watched the arch of his brow as he observed him and he was certain he would be thinking of this ‘favor’ that he did for him every time Tom so much as looked in his direction. And Tom smiled, because he would be counting on Lestrange’s over-confidence and inflated ego to make him compliant until he could deal with him fully. 

“I just want to ensure I receive what is owed,” Tom said, “And I want the least amount of mess,”

“And I receive what?” Lestrange parried, looking much-too-pleased. “Your favor?”

Tom consciously turned his lips up in the mockery of a smile. “And my gratitude.”

Lestrange agreed, in the end, with less of a smile but exactly the same amount of superiority. He called a solicitor and the three of them took a plane (Tom had never been on a plane before, ever, and it had taken ever ounce of his self-control not to show discomfort when it took off) and arrived at Tom Riddle Sr.’s house a Friday morning in February.

“Hello, father,” He greeted when the older gentleman looked between the three of them with a reddening face. He must’ve recognized Lestrange—unsurprising, since the Lestrange family were practically celebrities—because he remained silent. Tom only used the parental term because he knew it made the older man angry. “Care to chat?”

Blackmailing his father was embarrassingly difficult. For a man who kept to himself so drastically he certainly cared far too much about what everyone thought of him. An illegitimate son was one thing, but an illegitimate son whom he knowingly attempted to kill before birth and left to rot in an orphanage certainly would not do well for his image. 

The kicker was that, since he had never had any other children, if it did not go to Tom, it would go to the public.

“You take pride in your home,” Tom observed, eyeing the ostentatious decorations that surrounded them, “What a shame it would be if they tore it down. Or…repurposed it. Perhaps an orphanage.” Riddle Sr glared. His son smiled back.

“You’re threatening me,” Riddle Sr. observed, but Tom’s smile didn’t falter.

“I’m suggesting an agreement,” Tom amended, “I have no interest in kindling any sort of relationship, nor do I find it particularly enjoyable being in your presence at the moment. I’m willing to keep quiet, and let you live in peace, on the basis that when you die,” He glanced pointedly around them before meeting the elder Riddle’s gaze again, “This is mine.”

He agreed, in the end. The prospect of a life without worrying about the world finding out about his illegitimate son—and especially a life where he needn’t be bothered by familial responsibilities—was too tempting to pass up. So they formulated the will, and Tom imagined how it might feel to wrap his hands around the older man’s throat until his face turned blue and his eyes bulged out of his head.

He didn’t do that, though. Later, perhaps.

Lestrange looked a bit smug on the way home, as if it was only through his gracious help that Tom had managed to secure any amount of wealth for himself. Tom let him remain that way because Lestrange seemed to be much more manageable when he was smug than when he felt pinned. 

He felt a bit excited, if he was honest. He didn’t show it, because showing any positive emotions around Lestrange was a mistake he would not be making any time soon. So he waited until he was back at Hogwarts, until Lestrange’s solicitor had left him his card and taken off, until Tom was alone in his room and Lestrange had offered a pleasant goodbye. 

And then he called Hermione.

“Hello?” She sang into the phone when she answered. 

“You sound happy,” He noted blankly.

She hummed a bit distractedly in response, “So do you,” She noted.

“I met with my father,” He said outright. He heard a clatter, as if she dropped something.

“Oh—dang it,” She muttered, “You what? Tom, you—no, I’m alright mum!” He pulled the phone slightly away from his ear at her yell. She must’ve dropped something loud enough for her mother to call from another room, “You met your father? Tom what did you do—“

“Calm down.” He said evenly.

“Tom, I am perfectly calm!” She snapped. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up against his will.

“We came to an agreement,” He explained shortly, if just to stop her from offering him a lengthy, unnecessary lecture. “He’s written me into his will.”

There was a moment of stunned silence on her part before she let out a short laugh. “Really?” She balked, “Well, he’s finally done something useful, then.” She snarked, and he heard more noises on her end, the clattering of metal dishes.

“What are you doing?” He asked curtly, irritated by the noise.

“I’m baking.” She answered promptly, her tone suggesting she knew exactly how he would react to that statement, punctuated with defensiveness.

“Baking.” He echoed.

“Yes,” She stressed, “I am—well, I was baking, until I bloody well dropped everything—“

“Why?” He indulged, “You hate baking.”

“Lavender said I couldn’t bake anything edible if I took instruction from Mary Berry herself—first of all, I don’t know who that is, that doesn’t even sound like a real name—“ She was ranting by now, and he heard what he thought was the sound of her angrily chucking everything into the sink, “—And second of all, I don’t see how baking can truly be that difficult.”

“And?” He prompted.

“It was going well,” She answered, “Until it wound up on the floor.”

“You don’t sound particularly crushed.” He observed.

“Baking is a useless art, anyway,” She spat, the same tone she always used when she discovered something she wasn’t good at. “I can just buy a cake from Sainsbury’s or something.” He hummed in response. “Anyway,” She sighed, “How did the meeting with that demon go?”

“It went well,” He said, “He was eager enough to keep me out of my life that once I offered to leave him alone he was willing to do anything.”

“Great,” Hermione snapped, “Now all the bastard has to do is die.”

He paused at that. He knew she didn’t exactly mean it in the way he wanted her to, but he felt a strong rush of affection at her words. He had been longing to watch that bastard die from the moment he found him, from the moment he found out he had practically orchestrated the death of his mother in the hopes that he would die as well. He hadn’t told her, because the last time he had ever shown a desire to kill someone in front of her she had distanced herself from him for five months. He didn’t particularly like lying to her, but he liked the idea of her leaving him even less. 

He liked that, for a moment, it almost sounded as if she had given him her approval. 

“One can dream.” He said after a moment, “I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Oh, yeah, alright,” She said quickly, “I—uh—I miss you.” 

He hesitated, not because he didn’t feel the same or because he felt at all displeased by her words. He rather liked it when she said that. Rather, he hesitated because there was something decidedly nervous in her tone, as if she wasn’t certain he would say it back. He didn’t completely understand why, because he had said he missed her before. And she couldn’t possibly think that he didn’t miss her. The fact of the matter was he couldn’t imagine her missing him as much as he did her.

In the spirit of honestly, especially because he was lying to her about a fair amount already, he was candid when he replied evenly, “I miss you more.”

She let out a short, delighted little laugh, as if she hadn’t expected that. “I don’t think that’s possible.” 

“No?” He indulged her.

“No.” She said softly, “I’m happy for you, being at Hogwarts, but….sometimes I wish you’d just do something awful and get expelled so you can come back here with me.”

“You dream of me being expelled?” He murmured, thoroughly amused.

She hummed, “I practically fantasize about it.” She said with a light laugh. The words were spoken with a distracted sort of innocence, but they wiped the bemused smirk off his face in an instance. He paused, muling the words over in his head and deciding upon his response. If he was anywhere else, he would’ve shut away the way that phrase made him feel and said goodbye—he had told her he needed to go, after all, but he had only truly said that because he hated long phone calls—but given the fact he was locked away in his room, he couldn’t quite stop himself.

“And is that all you fantasize about?” He asked quietly. 

There was a pause before she answered. He wished he could see her, wished he could watch her reaction, because over the phone he had no way of knowing if her pause was one of anger or nervousness or something else. But after a moment of waiting, he heard the intake of breath before she said quietly, carefully, “No.”

He felt his whole body tune into the conversation, leaning forward where he was sitting. “And what do you fantasize about?” He pressed.

Another pause, a bit shorter this time, but with a much longer breath, as if she was attempting to calm herself. “I actually…” She started. He waited for her to finish, afraid that if he said anything she would lose her nerve and change the subject or hang up. “Remember when we went to see your father?”

“You fantasize about my father?” He asked dryly, feeling himself deflate slightly at the mention of him.

“No—shut up,” She snapped, “I meant at the place where we stayed,” He hummed a quiet affirmation, assuming she meant what he had done to atone for frightening her, but then she added, “Before I freaked out,” And he wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. He wished he could see her, wished he could read her expression instead of relying entirely on tone. “Sometimes I wonder…” She continued slowly, “What would have happened if I hadn’t…if I hadn’t stopped you.”

He felt something coil in his gut, excitement and something else, and he leaned over to rest his elbows on his knees. Times like this he missed her most—when he was reminded how easily he could touch her if the distance between them didn’t exist. Feeling indulgent, and missing her, he decided that one long phone call wouldn’t hurt. So after a moment, he asked lowly, “Would you like me to tell you?”

He heard her shaky exhalation. “Yes.” She said.

But before he could get a word out, he heard her mutter, “Oh for fucks—“ Before saying much louder, “Mum! Can it wait? I’m busy!”

He sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose when he heard her mutter, “Oh my god—“

“You have to go.” He surmised.

“I—“ She cut her off with an irritated sort of huff, “I’m coming, mum, just—“ 

“I’ll talk to you later.” He said.

“I’m—“ She sighed, “Sorry, I…I really do miss you.”

He gritted his teeth, “I miss you.” He said lowly.

“Bye,” She said quietly.

“Bye.” He echoed. 

She hung up first. He resisted the urge to chuck his phone across the room.

—

Tom was walking home from an evening seminar when he first discovered exactly how much he had underestimated Lestrange.

He had assumed, with the small illusion of power he had given him, Lestrange would be somewhat appeased. He had assumed that he would feel more at ease with Tom’s presence if he felt he had something Tom didn’t—which he did—but especially if he had something Tom didn’t that Tom needed. He has assumed that would fix the problem until he could permanently fix the problem.

As it turned out, he was wrong.

It was early march, the sun had long since set and the lights along the street were reflected in the water that lined the pavement. He pulled out a cigarette, let the smoke warm his lungs as his boots splashed through the rain puddles, walking down the empty street that would bring him to his dorm. It was quiet, and dark despite the lights that lined the pathway. It was a picturesque walk—one he was certain Hermione would enjoy—the cobblestone street lined on either side by little shops, most of which were closed, save for the restaurants that would stay open until eleven. He could smell the food, hear the chatter of the patrons as he walked and watched his exhalation fill the air in front of him with smoke.

He had just reached the end of the quiet street and was turning to a darker, more silent path that led strait to his building when an arm wrapped around his neck, hands at his arms, something slipped over his eyes, too, and he was dragged backwards into what he assumed was an alleyway, out of sight from anyone who might be exiting or entering one of the restaurants he had passed.

He had a brief moment of confusion, and his first assumption was that it was some kind of mugging. They had the element of surprise, but Tom and grown up poor and ostracized and if there was nothing else Tom had learned in his time in the orphanage, he had certainly learned how to win in a fight. He discerned in his head there were at least four men—one at his back, one at each arm, and one landing solid punches on his stomach—so lifted a leg and kicked blindly ahead of him while simultaneously slamming his head back against whoever it was that attempted to hold him still from behind. Judging by the grunt and the sound of someone hitting the ground in front of him, he assumed he had kicked the former in the groin. 

The man at his left lifted his hands from his arm in order to punch him in the face, and Tom took the opportunity to lift the fabric they had thrown over his eyes off and throw it to the ground, turning to the man at his right who still held his arm and socking him hard enough in the jaw that he felt something crack.

It was his pinky, to be fair, the angle by which he hit him causing it to crack in a decidedly painful way, but the way the man immediately dropped to the ground howling suggested he had done enough damage regardless.

He didn’t recognize any of the men, he realized, as he ducked under the arms of the man who had originally stood behind him when he made a move to grab him. He jammed his elbow into the man’s solar plexus and pulled him forward by the lapels of his coat so that he would take the brunt of the punch his friend threw. He kicked at his knee, listened to the sound of snapping bone, met the eyes of the man who landed a punch earlier before he clasped his hand around the back of his neck and slammed his face into the brick wall three times consecutively. 

The man Tom had struck first, the one who had been punching him in the stomach before he kicked him, was bringing himself to his feet. Now that Tom looked at him, he looked oddly familiar. “Jesus, did you—grow up in fucking fight club, or—you fucking maniac—“ He started, his accent much too posh to be from a common mugger. 

Tom turned his head to spit out a small amount of blood from when one of them landed a hit on his cheek. From the feel of his face it would probably swell, or at the very least bruise. The man with the broken jaw had already gotten to his feet and stumbled out of the alley way clutching his face, and the other two were lying silent on the ground, so Tom focused his attention on the vaguely familiar man who was starting to run off as well.

He caught him by the back of his coat, pulled him back, placed his hand at the back of his head and pressed his cheek into the wall. “Get your hands off of me—“ The stranger started.

“Do I know you?” Tom asked calmly, his mouth moving a bit unnaturally around the words. His cheek was definitely swelling.

“We—we were only messing about, mate,” The man stuttered

“Not your mate,” Tom muttered. His tongue ran along the side of his cheek and it was only then he realized he must’ve bitten it when he got punched. Sighing irritably through his nose, he reached into his coat pocket and flicked open his pocket knife, fisting his hand in the man’s hair and drawing his head back enough so he could press his knife against his throat.

“Get—get off me, I’ll—“

“Do I know you?” He repeated through his teeth. One of the men groaned behind him, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder before losing back at the man in front of him. 

“No!” He said a bit desperately, “No, you—“

“Name,” Tom demanded.

“R—Rabastan, I—you can’t kill me, my father will—“

“Your father would never find out you were dead,” He deadpanned, glancing over his shoulder again when another groan sounded. He had faired well in the fight in part because he was starting to think none of these men had been involved in a street fight in their life, but also in part because he had caught them by surprise. He truly was not interested in getting in another scramble if one of them got up. “What was the point of this?” 

“Just—just to scare you—I was just doing as I was told, please don’t kill me—“ Tom rolled his eyes and took a deep, calming breath when the man started to cry. He was tempted to slit his throat just to make him be quiet. 

But then something occurred to him. The name Rabastan suddenly sounded incredibly familiar.

“Rabastan,” He said lowly, “Lestrange.” The man in question didn’t respond, just continued to whimper and cry and try not to move against the knife Tom still held against his throat. A cold sort of fury washed over him, made him wonder if he should just slit his throat to teach Rodolphus a lesson, but he didn’t.

Because after a moment of consideration, he realized that was what he wanted him to do.

Lestrange didn’t sent Rabastan to scare him. He hadn’t sent him to beat him in the alleyway as some sort of power-play. After Tom had sent him to the hospital, he knew Lestrange would never use violence against him: Tom lived in violence, thrived in it, Lestrange knew that any attempt at using physical violence against Tom would never work—

Unless he wanted him to win. Tom gritted his teeth and thought to the way Lestrange had observed him as of late, that haughty sort of superiority he had regarded him with, and he wondered if Lestrange had seen Tom’s trust in him in regard to his father for what it was. Temporary. A way to keep him quiet until he could get rid of him later, when he didn’t need to tiptoe around him anymore. So he sent his younger brother to draw him into a fight, hoping that Tom would fall into the same habits of violence that he had before so he could kill him and Lestrange could either put him away for murder or use it to blackmail him.

He had certainly underestimated him. If the whole situation hadn't turned on him he might’ve been impressed. 

He flipped his knife closed, allowed the man a moment of relief before he slammed his face into the wall—probably harder than necessary— watching him drop to the ground before stepping out of the alleyway. He had dropped his cigarette when they had first jumped him, so he pulled another out of his pack and lit it while he walked, counting on the nicotine to calm his anger at least a little, focusing on the burn in his lungs and the pain in his cheek to ground him.

He wouldn’t be reckless. Just because every part of him wanted to seek that bastard out and destroy him, didn’t mean that would do any good. He needed to be smart, he needed to put him in his place—

If Lestrange wanted death, Tom could certainly oblige.

When he was back in his room the first thing he did was wipe the blood from his mouth and press an ice pack against his cheek. Staring down at his pinky, he knew it was definitely broken, but he could deal with that in the morning. But even after bringing down the swelling of his face and taking a long, long shower, he still felt rage bubbling up in his chest and rushing to his fingers and toes—

His phone rang.

“Hello?” He bit out without checking to see who was calling.

“Hi!” He heard a familiar voice call out, and he felt like the rage that had filled his lungs suddenly left in a whooshing breath, replaced by a strange, calming sort of emptiness, like he could feel nothing except the weight of her voice against his ear. It didn’t make him forget, exactly, because he couldn’t forget it—not when his cheek still hurt and he had a splitting headache and his pinky was killing him and his stomach ached—but there was still a fascinating reformation of priorities the moment she spoke. “I know it’s sort of late,” She continued, and he was certain she didn’t even notice his tone when he first answered, “But I’m writing this essay and it’s about the socioeconomic inequalities in secondary education, and I remember you mentioned that article and I couldn’t remember it—“

He took a slow breath, shutting his eyes. He felt suddenly very tired. “Ringrose?” He asked.

“Well, I used that a little, but that one is more gender focused than anything else,” She said, “What was the one that cited Bourdieu, like, every other sentence?”

“From the local journal—you still have it.” He answered, laying back on his bed with a sigh.

“I do?” She asked as if she thought he was wrong. He heard the sound of rustling papers and assumed she was looking for it amongst all her other resources. 

“The one from Hogwarts’ sociology journal—“

“Found it!” She cried joyously, and though the volume sent a pang of pain through his already aching head, he didn’t particularly mind it that much.

“What class?” He asked.

“No class, actually,” She muttered. He imagined she was searching for the article in the journal while she spoke, “It’s an—extra-curricular, thing. My history teacher told me that we live in a classless society and I’m trying to prove him wrong.”

Tom snorted. “He’ll trash it.” He said blankly.

“He will not,” She snapped, “He will read it, and realize what a ridiculous statement that is, and maybe he’ll stop hanging on every word the prime minister ever says.”

“Right,” He muttered disbelievingly.

“Sorry,” She said suddenly, “I’ll let you go, I just needed the article—“

“Tell me about the essay,” He interrupted. The prospect of her hanging up meant dealing with the rage on his own, and while he was confident that his self control would be strong enough from stopping him from doing anything spectacularly stupid, he found it was much easier when she spoke to him. 

“You…want to hear about it?” She asked slowly. He hummed an affirmative. “Why?”

“I want to hear your voice,” He answered honestly.

There was a short hesitation on her part, before she asked quietly, “Is everything alright?”

He considered telling her, but he knew the only thing that would come out of him telling her he got jumped would be her worry, and he truly did not feel like comforting her at the moment. So he kept it to himself, and muttered, “I’m tired.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. “Tired—“ She echoed, “My essay is not a bedtime story, Tom, it’s a collection of all the horrible inequalities among students’ academic achievement based solely on income, its—“

“Alright,” He cut her off, his lips twitching up into a smile.

She paused, as if she was considering continuing her lecture. After a moment she said, “I could tell you about my history essay? That’ll put you to sleep.” 

He felt a sudden, strong rush of affection for her in that moment, and he wished she was there, but he was also glad she wasn’t. She would panic, of course, and then she would demand to know if he was going to do anything ‘stupid’ to retaliate. She would probably get angry when it would become clear that he was about to do something she didn’t like, and then they would just end up fighting. So part of him was glad she wasn’t there, so that he was able to listen to her prattle on about the parameters of her history essay and about how much she hated her professor.

He already knew how to handle Lestrange, so he listened to the soothing tone of her voice and fell asleep.

—

Tom didn’t mention anything to Lestrange for two months.

Lestrange obviously knew, because he was casting none-too-subtle, nervous glances in his direction for the first two weeks after the attack. But Tom didn’t show any shift in his behavior, didn’t give Lestrange any reason to think he was planning anything. He did this in part because he wanted Lestrange to believe he either didn’t know it was him (though he was certain Rabastan ran back and told him he knew of their relation—he wondered if the younger brother knew he had been sent there to die) or believe that he simply planned not to retaliate. 

He also did this in part because he liked to watch Lestrange squirm.

He waited until May, until a week before finals when he finally approached him.

“I wanted to pay my father another visit,” He said, a command implicit in his tone because while he had let Lestrange play, there was still a mutual understanding that Tom was largely in charge, “I want you to accompany me.”

“Oh?” Lestrange replied, his eyebrows rising, “I believe the solicitor gave you their card.”

“No solicitor,” Tom said, “I want to be sure he’s keeping up his end of the bargain.” He offered a tight smile, “My father is and always has been intimidated by those with large sums of money.”

“Ah,” Lestrange sighed, the statement stroking his ego enough for him to smirk and say, “When shall we go?”

They went the Saturday before final exams. 

He met with Bella, briefly, before he left and dismissed Lestrange’s commentary—You two certainly seem to get along, don’t you?—as his usual possessive jealousy that accompanied his tone whenever anyone spoke to Bella. He smiled and didn’t mention what Bella had pressed into his palm before he left.

They took a plane, again, and Tom found the second time in a plane was not nearly as jarring as the first. This time, however, he had to do much more to hide his excitement. They arrived in Little Hangleton Saturday afternoon and approached the manor, soaking up the sunshine as they waited on the front step. It was not quite cold enough for gloves but Tom wore them anyway. When the door opened, Riddle Sr did not look pleased.

“Hello father,” Tom greeted almost mockingly, “Tea?”

His father waited until they were all seated waiting for the tea to seep before he said anything, and when he did speak his tone was one of anger and annoyance, “I thought the agreement was that you would not return here,”

“Believe me, I won’t be bothering you again,” Tom said pleasantly, comfortably lounging on the sofa with his long legs crossed in front of him, an easy smile on his face, “I just wanted to check in one time. I want to see the will.”

“I have kept my end of the—“

“I want to see it,” Tom repeated with far less civility. Riddle Sr watched him for a silent moment, before standing with a huff and leaving the room to retrieve it.

“Is this truly why we’ve returned?” Lestrange asked lowly, looking entirely unamused, “So you can check in? Seems pretty useless to me, he’s legally bound to keep you in that will.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed, lifting the top of the tea pot with his gloved fingers, wafting the smell of the tea toward his nose. Lestrange rolled his eyes as he did and focused his attention elsewhere around the room. Tom made no move to elaborate, to explain their presence in Riddle Manor, so Lestrange continued speaking instead.

“Am I here just in case you need to threaten him?” He asked.

Tom only smiled, replacing the lid on the teapot. “Earl Grey.” He commented. Lestrange rolled his eyes again.

“Here’s the will,” His father spat when he reentered, dropping the papers on the table for Tom to see. He didn’t pick it up at first, watching his father with a near predatory glance before he smiled again—a tight, unpleasant, disingenuous thing—and leaned forward to pick up the paper.

“You haven’t brought that girl since you first visited,” His father commented. Tom felt his shoulders stiffen but ignored him. “She was a right horror.” 

“Lestrange, would you poor the tea,” Tom asked pleasantly, flipping the page to scan the document. Riddle Sr’s eyes drifted back to the most wealthy occupant of the room and he pursed his lips in silence. Lestrange did as he was asked, picking up the pot and pouring the tea into each of their cups. Riddle Sr had already lifted his before Lestrange even placed the pot down.

“If you are not going to stay away, we will have to renegotiate the parameters of our—“

“Relax, father,” Tom said calmly, “No renegotiations necessary.”

His father glared sullenly at him, lifting the cup to his lips to take a long, calming sip of the tea. Lestrange moved to do the same and Tom laid his hand on his forearm to stop him midway to his lips.

“Something wrong with the tea?” Riddle sneered. Tom smiled benignly in response.

“No,” He said, “But airport toilets are a fright,” 

Lestrange eyed him oddly at his side.

Riddle Sr tipped his chin up so that he could look at him down the bridge of his nose. “Where did you fly from?” He asked.

“Hogwarts.” Tom answered shortly. He felt a bit angry at the way his father looked so pleasantly surprised.

“You go to Hogwarts.” He observed, looking impressed.

“Yes.” Tom agreed shortly. 

“Well,” His father said, cutting himself off with a short cough, “It’s good to see you take after your father more than your—“

“I assure you,” Tom interrupted, “The only things I have inherited from you are your name and your looks.”

“Lucky boy,” He said with a smile. Tom’s lips twitched into what might’ve been a snarl, watching his father turn another cough into his curled fist. 

But instead, he smiled again. “Lucky, indeed,” He agreed. It was a smile that remained, when his father’s cough turned into a wheeze, his hand massaged the base of his throat as if seeking some sort of relief. He coughed again, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion at the sudden onslaught of respiratory distress.

Tom wasn’t sure anything had ever felt quite as satisfying as watching his father’s eyes snap up to meet his in sudden realization when his breath started coming in short, quick, useless gasps. He clutched at his throat, his face quickly turning blue as he tried to suck in breath after desperate breath and glared at Tom with wide, bulging accusatory eyes.

“Mr…Riddle?” Lestrange asked carefully, “Are you—“

Tom didn’t move until his father did. When his father reached forward and attempted to stand, he fell, his arm sweeping across the table and knocking the tea to the ground and shattering the porcelain. And Tom reached into his pocket and withdrew a cigarette and a lighter, lighting up a smoke and breathing in deep while he watched the old man writhe and choke on the floor, before exhaling and watching the smoke curl around itself as it drifted up to the ceiling. He hoped it stained. 

Lestrange stared at Tom with wide, horrified eyes. Neither moved until Riddle Sr’s gasps had stopped and they both sat in silence.

“You—“ Lestrange choked, “You—“

Tom raised an eyebrow and threw the boy a sidelong glance, taking another calm drag of his cigarette. 

“He’s dead!” He finally exclaimed, his face twisting up in terror and anger.

“Very astute,” Tom spoke around his cigarette. Lestrange’s hands lifted from where they had settled on his lap to drift uselessly through the air around him in wild, jerking movements. He looked lost for words.

“You did this!” He said loudly, “You—you—“

“Do calm down.” Tom murmured, finally turning his head to show Lestrange an exhausted look. Lestrange’s breath hitched when he did.

“Calm—calm down?” He seethed, “Calm—I’m calling the police, you’re out of your mind if you think—“

Tom rolled his head, reached into his pack of cigarettes while he spoke, “No you won’t,” He said, sliding a cig out of the pack and holding it out to Lestrange. It hung in the air between them as Lestrange refused to reach for it.

“Why not?” He demanded.

Tom smiled, the satisfaction of watching the old man die and now watching Lestrange stare at him wide-eyed, horrified, and afraid warming him more than a cigarette ever could. He liked the way Lestrange looked when he was terrified, when his entitled smugness fell from his face and was replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. He stared at Tom like he thought he was insane, like he thought he was a wild animal. 

At the moment, high off the feeling of power and control, he sort of felt like one.

“Because you poured the tea.” He said pleasantly. Lestrange’s eyebrows drew together in desperation and Tom thought for a gleeful moment that he might cry. 

“I have no motive,” He argued breathlessly, “You—you do—“

“We’ll both face the consequences,” Tom agreed, “Are you willing to go down with me?”

Lestrange eyes were wide and glassy and Tom thought for a moment he could see the reflection of his smile in them. The cigarette remained between them, held between Tom’s still-gloved fingers, an offering that brought with it an implicit understanding, an agreement. Lestrange stared at it for a long moment, his chest heaving and his lip trembling. He glanced at the body of the man before them, at the tea on the floor and the shattered porcelain. When he met Tom’s eyes again there was an equal amount of resigned fury and horror, his jaw clenched and breath coming in quick, sharp exhalations through his nose. 

He took the cigarette.

Tom offered him his lighter, watched as he lit the cigarette with trembling fingers. For all his bravado, for all his efforts to have Tom kill his brother, it seemed that he had never seen a dead body before. Tom found himself laughing, suddenly. A low chuckle that bubbled up in his chest and turned into a slow, easy sort of laughter as he turned away from Lestrange and glanced around the ostentatious sitting room. 

It was his now.

(Lestrange was his now, too)

—

Tom called the police. Lestrange watched as he dry-sobbed into the phone—My father, I don’t know what happened, I think he had a heart attack, or—

When the police came, Tom spoke to them. Lestrange stayed at the side and watched the effortless way in which he spoke to them, formed his expression. He watched the way the police sighed and extracted Riddle Sr from his home (by their expressions, it seemed the people of Little Hangleton were less than fond of the old man) he watched the way Tom followed their movements with hungry eyes, the way he knew exactly what to do and what to say and how to look to make everyone just look the other way—

Tom watched them carter his father’s body out of the house. He missed the way Lestrange’s eyes flashed with something decidedly desperate in his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione made a huge mistake.

She didn’t know what came over her, really. She tried to think back to exactly what it was that had taken hold of her usually logical mind and cause her to make this colossal mistake, but she couldn’t even begin to wonder what made her think, for even a moment, that this would be a good idea. It’s just that lately she had been so confused and nervous and she just wanted to talk to someone about it, and then she made the mistake of just blurting it out—

She sat straight-backed, jaw clenched, staring into the wide blue eyes of Lavender Brown and honestly she hated herself for her inability to keep her big mouth shut.

“You’re dating Tom?” Lavender practically shrieked, her eyes almost popping out of her head and the dress that she had been holding up against herself falling from her fingers. Hermione didn’t even have the strength to wince at this point, too humiliated by the fact that she had just told Lavender—

“Uh…” She sputtered, her fingers curling into her knees, “Um—sort of?”

“Sort of?” Lavender echoed, her voice deafening as a wide grin spread across her face, watching as Hermione hurriedly stood from where she had been sitting in order to pick up the dress Lavender had dropped, hanging it back up on the rack and then writhing her hands in front of her while Lavender stared at her with wide, excited eyes.

“It’s—complicated—uh—“ Hermione was internally beating herself over the head for having said anything, especially as Lavender took her hands in hers and started bouncing up and down like a lunatic, “Stop it—Stop it—We just, we’re not telling anyone yet—“

“Am I the only one who knows?” Lavender asked, her face suddenly going quite serious. Hermione nodded, but before she could say anything else Lavender seized her by the wrist and was dragging her out of the shop into the cold. She pulled her hand away so she could shove it into the pocket of her denim jacket, but still followed after Lavender as she excitedly led her to a bench at the side of the pavement. “Oh my god,” She said, pulling Hermione to sit down beside her, “Tell me, tell me, tell me—“

“First of all, calm down,” Hermione snapped irritably, and a bit more of an aside, she added, “This is so humiliating,”

“Humiliating?” Lavender laughed, “You’re the one who brought it up—“

“Yes, well, I didn’t mean to—“ Hermione tried to defend herself, her leg bouncing in irritation and her hands still shoved in her pockets as she turned her eyes to watch the traffic go by instead of meeting Lavender’s eyes. They were supposed to be shopping for a dress for Lavender on account of her and Ronald’s anniversary or something, and since Parvati was out of town, it had fallen upon Hermione to accompany her. But then Lavender started prattling on about her lovely relationship with Ron and Hermione was such a bundle of nervous energy wherever talk of Tom was concerned, and when Lavender had nonchalantly asked how Tom was, it had just blurted out of her without her consent.

“Well, you did.” Lavender said, both her hands settling on Hermione’s arm and shaking her, “Come on, it’s not as if I didn’t see it coming—“

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked cuttingly, turning to eye Lavender shrewdly at her side. She rolled her eyes.

“Oh please,” She scoffed, “You two were always together—“

“Because we’re friends,” Hermione argued, but she was ignored.

“You have these weird moments where you like stare at each other and like read minds or something—“

“You’re being ridiculous—“

“You wear his clothes, for god’s sake—“

“I do not!” Hermione snapped, affronted, staring at Lavender incredulously as the latter raised her brows in a disbelieving expression. She lifted a hand from Hermione’s arm to point at her jacket but she didn’t say a word. Hermione rolled her eyes. “This hasn’t been his for like, two years, it doesn’t count.”

“Doesn’t count, my arse,” Lavender said, “Come on, you can’t just say that you’re dating and then refuse to tell me about it—“

“I didn’t mean to say anything,” She snapped, “Just drop it Lavender—can’t we just go shopping for your dress?” She turned her pleading gaze on her friend, but she already had her eyes narrowed into that expression she always got when she didn’t like the answer she’d been given. Hermione turned her eyes to traffic again.

“Do you not want to date him?” She asked bluntly. Hermione was genuinely shocked at the question, glancing quickly at Lavender before averting her gaze to her knees. When she looked down she noticed her leg was still bouncing, so she made a conscious effort to remain still. 

“Of course I want to date him.” She muttered.

“Then what’s the problem?” Lavender pressed.

“There is no problem—“ Hermione started, but at the sound of Lavender’s scoff she raised her head to glare at her and continued, “It just all happened rather quickly, is all.”

And it had. She had been agonizing over the sudden changes in their relationship for months, and the closer she got to Tom’s return home to more ill at ease she felt about everything. Keeping it secret had made it worse—neither Tom nor Hermione had necessarily agreed on keeping it secret except from her mother, but she still found herself refraining from telling any of her friends, and especially not Viktor, who would still text her now and then to see how she was doing, to ask if she wanted to get a—purely platonic—coffee, though she always said no, thank you.

Her mother didn’t notice anything, which wasn’t much of a surprise. Her mother wasn’t an easy woman to lie to, certainly, but it was extraordinarily easy to hide things from her. Both her parents had always been workaholics—always ready to drop work for their daughter if needed, but workaholics nonetheless—and now that Hermione was old enough to virtually take care of herself, they spent much of their time at work. It was easy to hide her long-distance boyfriend when they were almost always out of the house.

(Of course her mother still, somehow, always managed to interrupt her at the most inopportune moments)

“Quickly?” Lavender asked carefully, as if she wasn’t quite sure what she meant. Hermione took a deep breath through her nose.

“I don’t know,” She muttered irritably, “It’s just—one moment he was just my best friend and it was normal, and all of a sudden we’re—“ She cut herself off, remembering the way he had felt, and the way he had tasted, his hands in her hair and his teeth at her throat and his tongue—

She felt her cheeks flame, and she hoped the cold May weather was enough to keep it from showing. She hesitantly met Lavender’s eyes and instantaneously regretted it, because Lavender looked like she was so excited she might implode. “Did you two have sex?” She whispered conspiratorially.

Hermione sputtered for a solid fifteen seconds before she was finally able to snap out a furious reply. “No,” She seethed, “No, we didn’t, we just—kissed and—uh—“

“And what?” Lavender pressed.

“We—“ Hermione didn’t know why she was having this conversation, mostly she just wanted to run and hide at this point.

“Did you give him a blow job?” She asked with a shrug, as if she didn’t understand why Hermione could possibly be uncomfortable with the conversation. Hermione flinched, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone overheard, even though she knew no one could possibly be bothered to listen in to the conversation of two teenage girls. 

“No.” She said firmly, then with much less confidence, continued, “We just—uh—well he…” Her leg was jostling again. “Oh, this is so humiliating,”

“I can talk about Ron, if that helps—?” Lavender started to offer, and Hermione reacted as if slapped.

“No!” She cried, “No, no that’s—not necessary, please don’t,” The last thing she needed was to hear about Lavender and Ron’s sex life. “We just—we’ve kissed, and…I didn’t” She gestured vaguely with her hand, “But he…”

“Oh my god, he ate you out?” Lavender at least had the good sense to whisper it, but it still sent Hermione’s cheeks flaming. “When he was here over break?”

“Uh—“ 

“You date for like a week and he already eats you out, you lucky bitch,” Hermione felt a bit thrown by the words, but they obviously weren’t meant meanly. Lavender was smiling widely while she said them, and Hermione would never understand Lavender’s love for talking about stuff like this. She just wanted to crawl under a rock. “Ron literally did that for the first time, like, two weeks ago—“

“Oh god,” Hermione gagged, “Would you stop?”

“I bet Tom really knows what he’s doing, too—“

“Oh god,” Hermione groaned, burying her head in her hands, “I am begging you, please stop.”

Lavender laughed loudly, wrapping her arms around Hermione’s shoulders in a friendly embrace, “Oh come on,” She said, giving her a light shake, “Didn’t you like it?”

Hermione didn’t answer purely because she hated this conversation, but Lavender seemed to misunderstand. She pulled away slightly, her hand resting on her shoulder. “Did you not like it?” She asked worriedly, “Did you not want him to, or—?”

“Of course I wanted him to,” Hermione sighed, “It’s just—weird. I don’t know. Once on the phone I think we almost—“ She stopped, hesitated and met Lavender’s eyes again. Whispering, because it felt strange to say it too loud, she said, “I think we almost had phone sex?”

“Oh my god,” Lavender laughed, “Hermione you harlot—“

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, “I am going to leave if you don’t take this seriously,” She warned.

“What is there to take seriously?” Lavender asked, “You’re in a relationship, you’re allowed to do whatever you want,” Then pointedly, as if she still wasn’t sure if Hermione had told the truth before, “If you want to.”

“It’s not as if I ever want him to stop in the moment,” Hermione muttered, “It just all happened so fast, and…I don’t know. He says all these nice things,” She sat back, dropping her hands from her face and watching the traffic go by. It was easier to talk when she didn’t have to look at her. “It’s just strange. It all feels…different.”

“Different good?” Lavender prompted.

“Different…unreal.” Hermione clarified.

There was a brief pause, before Lavender asked—quite rudely, as if she still thought Hermione was being ridiculous—“What, like he’s faking?”

“No,” Hermione snapped irritably, immediately, more of a knee jerk reaction than anything else. The truth was Lavender’s comment hit quite a bit closer to home than she cared to admit. 

The whole situation was just too strange for her to stomach. She had never imagined Tom would ever be romantically interested in anyone, but she especially hadn’t expected him to be sexually interested in anyone. But he had somehow effortless assimilated into the role of the perfect boyfriend—still him, still difficult and curt and a bit distant—but he was borderline affectionate, he was complimentary, he was candid and forward and Lavender hadn’t been wrong when she said he knew what he was doing—

In the moment, it always seemed perfect. When he had been home for the holidays, it was overwhelming and a bit scary sometimes how much she wanted him, how out of control she felt when he kissed her, but it was still perfect. It wasn’t until he left and she had time to herself to think how oddly sudden it all was, how simple it was. And Tom was never simple.

It was paranoid and ridiculous, but she couldn’t help but question his timing. He finds out she has a boyfriend so he comes home for the holiday and immediately becomes this suave, flirtatious something, and she always saw through him when he lied, when he was pretending to be something he wasn’t, but its just that she liked it so much when he kissed her, when he touched her, when he spoke to her like something other than just a friend. She felt blinded by her want for him, caught up in the rush of their newfound relationship to the point where she wasn’t thinking about who he was when she was with him.

But she couldn’t expect Lavender to understand. As far as Lavender or anyone else was concerned, Tom was the perfectly polite, handsome and mysterious boy from the orphanage. She couldn’t possibly understand why Hermione was panicking.

And she was, a bit. Panicking. She loved Tom, well and truly, at the very least she loved him as a friend but she wouldn’t outright deny loving him more, because she had always sort of differentiated her friendship with him from her friendship with anyone else. Lavender probably had a bit of a point when pointing out the inevitability of their relationship. Hermione had, in some way, felt the same. She hadn’t ever expected Tom to want her that way, but she had still always saw a future with him, no matter what. And she had been thinking and thinking and thinking about him for months, thinking about him when she was with Viktor, dreaming about him, fantasizing about what it might be like if Tom was just a bit more normal, a bit more interested in her.

And now he was, and she was panicking. Because it didn’t seem real. Everything he did somehow felt contrived, planned, like he was carefully considering the consequences of his actions before he did anything with her, and part of her knew this was just the way he was. She was always fighting his tendency to fake his way through situations he found distasteful, uncomfortable, or unfamiliar, his tendency to adopt that false persona he had with everyone else. And she had no way of knowing if he was truly acting, or if she was just panicking because she was afraid that this new step might be the downfall of their relationship, might be the thing that finally proves too much for them to weather.

She threaded her fingers through her hair. “I’m being ridiculous.” She mumbled. 

“Yeah,” Lavender agreed. Hermione sent her a half-hearted glare and Lavender shot back a cheeky smile, linking her arm through Hermione’s. “Can we go back to shopping?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, secretly a bit grateful that Lavender seemed content to drop the subject. “Yeah,” She said, “Yeah, let’s go back to shopping.”

Lavender had never been particularly good at giving advice, but she was always good at providing a distraction. So Hermione helped her find a dress for her anniversary and tried not to think about the whole Tom situation.

She didn’t know what to think, anyway.

Hermione had never been particularly fond of shopping for clothes. It was alright, sometimes, if she liked the particular shop, but as a whole she would rather spend her time in a book shop rather than a clothing shop. And Lavender was exceptionally picky, so everything Hermione offered was immediately set back upon the rack without a second thought. Sometimes Hermione felt like there was no point for her to even be there, because Lavender didn’t seem to trust her input at all, but it kept her busy, and for all of her oddities Hermione had come to sort of like Lavender. Which was good, considering how often her and Ron were together.

(And how often Harry made her accompany him when Ron brought Lavender alone so that he wouldn’t be a third wheel to their ridiculous amount of PDA. She told him he could just bring Ginny, once, but he went bright red and was decidedly off for the next thirty minutes and then pretended she hadn’t said anything at all)

They had gotten even worse in Ron’s final year of school, which was a bit ridiculous because it wasn’t as if he was planning on leaving London. He was going to train to become a police officer with Harry, so it wasn’t as if they had any reason to be acting as if their lives were going to change at all.

They met up with them later, Harry and Ron. After Lavender had found her dress for the weekend, they met them at the pub, Ron having already started day drinking since he was of legal age now.

“Honestly Ronald,” She griped when she saw he was already three pints in, “It’s barely four o’clock,” He rolled his eyes and pressed a sloppy kiss to Lavender’s cheek as Harry pressed a much more polite kiss to Hermione’s cheek in greeting. She glared at him, “Do you ever act as his impulse control?”

Harry laughed loudly, “I’m not his mum,” He said.

“And I am?” She challenged, her gaze pulled away from Harry’s smile when she heard Ron’s loud laugh, his arm curled around Lavender’s waist.

“Yeah!” He agreed, “You’re the mum-friend, out of all of us.”

“I am not,” She started insisting, but something mischievous flashed in Lavender’s eyes as she interrupted her.

“Would that make Tom the dad-friend?”

Hermione glowered at her.

“Tom?” Harry laughed, at the same time Ron commented, “Tom is more like the estranged-uncle friend.”

“Lavender,” Hermione warned quietly, “Stop it.”

“Why would Tom be—“ Harry started, seemingly oblivious, but Lavender’s smile was devious and she said—

“Because Tom and Hermione are dating!” 

“Lavender!” Hermione snapped, “Honestly, I’m never telling you anything again—“

“Oh, it’s not as if that’s a secret you were planning on keeping forever,” Lavender said lightly, smiling in the face of Hermione’s rapidly darkening expression.

“Whoa,” Harry laughed a bit unsurely, his brows drawing together as he turned to fully face Hermione, “Uhh—what? When did that start?”

“That doesn’t mean that you get to decide when I tell them,” Hermione fired back, ignoring Harry’s input. Ron, too drunk to notice she was angry in the first place, laughed and offered his entirely unnecessary opinion.

“We’re friends!” He said, “Friends don’t have secrets—“

“Oh sod off, Ronald,” She snapped, “If friends don’t have secrets maybe I should tell Lavender that she did leave her jacket at your house, but you said she didn’t because you threw it in with your laundry and it shrank—“

“Mione!”

“You shrank my jacket?” Lavender practically shrieked, “That was my favorite—“

Harry’s hand at her back distracted her from the havoc she had caused, and she hesitantly turned her eyes to her friend at her side. Harry was always irritatingly perceptive, and the way he was looking at her so closely now put her on edge. He looked concerned, worried. “It’s not a big deal,” He said lightly, “You and Tom were always something, we aren’t going to give you hell for it. We didn’t give you hell for Viktor.”

“I know,” She said quickly, not quite snappishly but something close, “It’s just new, is all.”

Harry shrugged, “Well, we won’t make you talk about it. I think Lavender just liked knowing something we didn’t—you know she's always been a bit of a gossip,” He smiled, leaning in to say quietly enough that the other two wouldn’t hear. The movement was probably unnecessary, considering Lavender was still complaining loudly at Ron, who was drunkenly babbling his own excuses. “Probably not your brightest idea, telling her.”

“Believe me, I won’t be telling her anything else, any time soon.”

“You can talk to me if you need to,” He offered lightly. But she knew she couldn’t, not really. Not about this. She wasn’t sure there was anyone she could talk to about this situation who would understand, who wouldn’t assume the worst or become angry or protective or ridiculous, who wouldn’t jump to conclusions and assumptions. Nonetheless she smiled and nodded, and Harry pressed a quick, perfunctory kiss on the top of her head. “You want a drink?” At her look, he added, “Ron’s legal, he can buy them.”

“No,” She said, shaking her head, “I think I’d like to remain sober, lest I end up punching Lavender.” Harry laughed and nodded, and it seemed that Lavender and Ron had reached some sort of stalemate. Lavender was staring up at him with pursed lips and her hands on her hips but had otherwise stopped yelling at him, while Ron was staring back at her with an apologetic expression on his face. His eyes met Hermione’s.

“That was low, Hermione,” He grumbled. She rolled her eyes, too distracted to answer because of the ringing of her phone in her pocket. 

“Excuse me,” She mumbled when she saw who was calling, “I’ll be back in a moment—“

“Is it your boyfriend?” Lavender asked excitedly. The casual use of the monicker set Hermione off.

“Shut up, Lavender,” She snapped with much more animosity than what was probably necessary. She briefly noticed the girl’s smile quickly fall of her face, but she had rounded the corner before she could feel too happy about the expression.

“Hello?” She sighed into the receiver, leaning against the wall of the pub, far enough away from those sitting outside that she wasn’t distracted by the noise.

“Hello,” He returned, and she found herself a bit inordinately happy to hear his voice. She always felt that way when he called, the soothing timbre of his voice settling in her mind like a happy memory, “Are you with people?” 

He must be able to hear to ruckus of the pub. She moved a bit further away, “Yeah, Harry and Ron and Lavender,” She said, “Lavender’s being…well, Lavender.” She stopped herself from complaining too much about her, lest she round the corner of the pub and overhear, “Anyway, what about you?”

“No, I’m packing,” She felt a smile stretch across her lips at his words, wide and unreserved.

“That’s right, you’ll be home within the week,” She realized. “Did you have any finals today?” 

“Just one,” He said, and because he knew she would ask, he continued, “It went well.”

“You probably aced it,” She said easily, smile widening at his scoff.

“Probably,” He echoed, as if the word offended him, as if there was no doubt he had aced it.

“And people call me an insufferable know-it-all,” She joked, leaning against the wall of some store a little ways down from the pub, much quieter than where she had stood before.

“Who does?” He asked.

“What?” She responded a bit dumbly.

“Who calls you that?”

“Uh—“ She sputtered, laughing a bit, “Um, everyone?” Tom was quiet. “Oh come on, Tom. I annoy people, this isn’t breaking news.” He hummed in response, a distracted sort of tone that suggested he didn’t care much for what she was saying but was opting not to disagree with her anyway. “What are you going to do, anyway, start threatening everyone at my school?”

“I could,” He pointed out.

“You’re ridiculous,” She muttered, changing the subject because she never liked dwelling on Tom’s ridiculous protective streak, “When are you coming home?”

“Wednesday,” He answered, and Hermione balked for a moment.

“Three days?” She asked, “You’re all done by then?” 

“Yes,” He answered shortly, as if he hadn’t been telling her he would come home the weekend after finals for months, as if she wouldn’t have to face the wrath of her mother as she hurriedly tried to get the house ‘ready’ for him to come home. 

“Okay—uh—I’ll have to tell mum, then, she’s going to—“

“I’m not staying at your house.” He said shortly. Hermione froze, feeling confused but especially feeling a bit annoyed, because of course he throws this all at her now, three days before he comes home. She furrowed her brow, shoving her hand that wasn’t holding her phone into her pocket.

“Well—where on earth are you going to stay then?” She asked irritably.

There was a brief pause. “Outside of London.”

She gritted her teeth, something disquieting spreading through her chest. Was he not coming home at all, she wondered? Was this his way of telling her he wasn’t going to come back to see her? “Outside of London?” She echoed.

“Little Hangleton.” He answered plainly. 

“Uh—“

“My father died.”

Her breath left her lungs, for a moment, the shock of his statement making her chest feel quite tight for a moment. “Uh—“ She sputtered, “Wow, I—how did he die?”

“Heart attack,” He answered, and for some reason she felt relieved when he did. She didn’t know what she expected, didn’t know why she had felt so suddenly afraid.

“Christ,” She muttered after a moment, “Well, good riddance I guess,” She offered lightly, because she hadn’t really liked Riddle Sr. to begin with. There was a long moment of silence on the phone that had her wondering if perhaps that was the wrong thing to say, if she had offended him. But Tom certainly hadn’t liked him either, so she couldn’t imagine why it would matter to him.

“Yes,” He agreed after some time, “Good riddance.”

“Are you—is there a funeral, or—?”

“Wednesday, yes. It’s why I’m coming back early. I’m finishing my exams tomorrow,” She worried her lip for a moment, thinking over the situation and picking at the inside of the cotton pocket on her—his—jacket. 

“Maybe…” She started, “Maybe you could still come back to London? Just for a couple weeks. I know Harry would love to see you—“ She wasn’t entirely certain this was true, but Harry liked nearly everyone, so she was certain he would be happy to see Tom, “And—you could stay at my house for those weeks before you go back to Little Hangleton,”

There was a pause. “I could stay somewhere else.” He offered.

“That’s not necessary, though—“

“I have the money,” He insisted, “And we wouldn’t need to hide from your mother.”

She didn’t know what to say, for a moment, because for some reason that thought terrified her. “Right,” She agreed, “You’re right—mum will be gutted you aren’t coming, probably, but—yeah, I’ll tell her.”

She knew that Tom had wanted to get a place outside of London—she knew he had wanted the estate his father had—because he hated London and wanted a place of his own that wouldn’t be in the city he grew up in. It’s just that she had thought it would be a few years yet before he got it, she hadn’t expected his father to pass away so soon. She thought that maybe she would be able to figure out just what the hell was going on before they took any step forward, she thought she would be able to make sense of this new whatever-it-was before—

She shook her head and took a deep breath, “Do you,” She started, a brief pause before she forged on, “Do you want me to go to the funeral with you?”

A hesitation, and then, “I would like to see you, yes.”

The words warmed her. The even, steady, almost flippant way in which they were said sounded convincing, truthful, and even for all her wonderings at his behavior as of late, she couldn’t help but think that this was unquestionable. It was comforting, knowing that he wanted to see her just as much as she wanted to see him. “Alright,” She agreed, “And then you can come back to London with me?”

“Alright,” He agreed. 

“I should—“ She started, because the thought of seeing Tom in three days had her feeling equally excited and terrified, “I should get back to my friends, I—I’ll see you Wednesday then?”

“I’ll text you details,” He assured her. 

“Alright,” She said, pausing for a moment. She didn’t know why she was so nervous. “Uh—see you then. Bye.”

She hung up quickly, and when she returned to her friends, her stomach was still in knots. 

That feeling remained.

—

Her mother and father were at work the morning Hermione would board the train for Little Hangleton, which was probably a good thing because she was a bit of a nervous wreck that morning.

She was excited to see Tom, she really was. She wasn’t sure if she had been this excited about anything since he had last come home. But she was also going insane with worry. Everything she had expressed—and refused to express—to Lavender remained in her mind, her worry over their relationship, over Tom, over everything, over how it all felt like it was inevitably going to crash and burn—

She put on a modest black dress, picked up her book bag, locked the door behind her and headed to the train station. She pushed the nervousness from her mind and reminded herself that this was Tom, and for all his unpredictability, she knew him, and she had nothing to be worried about.

She brought her copy of Neruda, the one Tom had meticulously annotated with translations to the poetry, and read that on the train to calm her nerves.

As it turned out, she didn’t need to bring anything as a distraction. That much was clear when a striking, wild-haired woman took the seat opposite her on the train. Hermione glanced up from her book momentarily, just to see who it was, and was momentarily stunned to see Bellatrix Black smiling at her, painted red lips stretched into a sultry sort of grin.

“You’re—“ She started.

“Bellatrix Black,” She introduced herself, “You can call me Bella, of course, and you’re Hermione Granger. Fancy seeing you here,” Hermione just balked at her for a moment. “Are you going to the funeral?”

After a brief hesitation, she asked, “Are you?”

“Well, I was visiting family in London,” She answered easily, “And my fiancé is going to a funeral in Little Hangleton, so I thought I would see him,” She paused, giving Hermione a long glance head-to-toe, then added, “I have to admit, I felt more compelled to go when I heard you would be coming.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Lestrange is there?” She asked after a moment.

“Yes,” She affirmed. Hermione thought it was odd for Lestrange to be there. Out of all of Tom’s friends, he seemed to be the one he hated the most. But then she supposed she never quite understood the social circle Tom had integrated into, nor the niceties that they all had to adhere to.

“Oh,” She said after a moment, because it looked as if Bella was waiting for her to say something. Bellatrix looked awfully pretty, wearing an expensive looking black dress that Hermione thought might be a bit revealing for a funeral, but it looked nice at any rate. Her long legs were crossed in front of her, their seats close enough that she had to sit at an angle so that her legs weren’t touching Hermione’s.

“So—you have family in London?” Hermione asked politely. Beatrix smiled, her eyes drifting to glance out the window as if the conversation bored her, offing a hum that Hermione thought was supposed to be a ‘yes,’ but she wasn’t sure.

“You seem nervous,” Bella said instead, her dark eyes focusing on Hermione again. “May I ask why?”

“I’m not nervous,” Hermione denied. Bella tilted her head, her lips pursed together in an almost-smile that made Hermione feel decidedly small. She bristled immediately, but remained silent.

Unexpectedly, Bell didn’t push the subject, and instead said in a casual tone, “I must say, Tom has never seemed to be the type to date,” She shifted in her seat, un-crossing and re-crossing her legs in one fluid movement and Hermione couldn’t help but examine the motion, “But I especially never expected him to date someone like you.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped up from Bella’s legs. “What does that mean?” She snapped.

“You’re too good for him.” She commented offhandedly, and Hermione immediately rolled her eyes. She ignored the fact that the way Bell had said it seemed different, more significant somehow, like she didn’t mean it in the common way most people said it. It felt very much like when Bella said good, she meant it quite literally.

“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione muttered. Bella grinned.

“It’s not.” She challenged, and Hermione felt somewhat flustered by the response.

“Stop it,” She said.

“Stop what?” Bella pressed.

“If I’m too good for Tom, then who am I supposed to be with?” Hermione snapped instead of clarifying, her book finally shut and in her lap now that her attention was solely fixed on the woman in front of her. Bella’s shoulders lifted in some ridiculously graceful imitation of a shrug.

“I wouldn’t dare to presume,” She said lightly. Hermione glared.

“Then who is Tom supposed to be with?” Hermione asked instead.

“If not you?” Bella clarified, “I can’t imagine anyone.” Hermione felt herself oddly gratified by the sentiment, and felt the intensity of her glare falter immediately. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione apologized after a moment, “I’m being rude—“

“No, no,” Bella said, “I rather like it.” Her lips curled into that smile again, and Hermione felt her cheeks warm once more.

“Stop it,” Hermione said again.

“Stop what?” Bella challenged. 

“Stop flirting with me.” Hermione clarified.

“That’s an impossible thing to ask,” Bella offered lightly, smiling wider when Hermione’s cheeks flushed. Hermione tried not to show that she was flustered, but the heat of her skin made that near impossible.

“I know why you’re doing this,” Hermione observed quietly. Bella’s smile slowly disappeared but she still looked no less pleased, “I know you like to cause drama. I suppose nothing you’ve done thus far has been able to get as far as you’d like under Tom’s skin, and you think I’m the way to do that,” Bella’s expression had narrowed, in a way, still vaguely pleased but decidedly more intense. Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of it. 

“Perhaps I just find you interesting,” She offered, her brow cocked up as she spoke.

“Whether you find me interesting or not is irrelevant,” Hermione said lightly, “If you want to deal with Tom, that’s your prerogative, but I certainly do not want to deal with Lestrange.” 

Hermione was mildly surprised when Bella laughed, “Do you know him?” She asked.

“I know of him,” Hermione clarified, and with a small smile added a bit jokingly, “My condolences,” In reference to Bella’s engagement to him. She didn’t laugh this time, but she was smiling, and her eyes were dark and focused on her. Hermione, in an effort to distract herself from the disconcerting look on Bella’s face, added, “Why are you with him, anyway?”

It worked, and Bella turned her eyes from Hermione to gaze down at her nails, “I’m sure you know of the Lestrange family,” Bella said, raising her eyes to meet Hermione’s in a way that was almost conspiratorial and, if Hermione wasn’t mistaken, she even seemed to be testing her in some way when she said, “And he’s the heir for quite a prestigious position in business.”

Hermione felt herself sitting up straight, her jaw set before she even realized what she was doing, “You don’t need that, though,” She said a bit snappishly, “You go to Hogwarts, which is one of the most prestigious universities in the world—you don’t need Lestrange’s fortune to get a good job—“

“Are you offended?” Bella laughed. Hermione paused for a moment.

“No,” She said.

“If I were to go about it the way you were suggesting, I would be forty before I was in charge of anything.” 

“But you would have done it yourself,” Hermione insisted.

“I’m still doing it myself,” She shrugged, “If I want to use a man or two to make the process quicker, than I will.” 

Hermione wanted to disagree, everything inside of herself screaming, but she bit her tongue. She didn’t know Bella well, and she had no right to be lecturing her on anything. A year ago she probably wouldn’t have been able to stop herself, and she thought it was a testament to her age that she was able to hold herself back at all.

The conversation flowed quite easily with Bellatrix while they sat opposite each other on the train. Hermione eventually slid her book into her bag, since she had company and didn’t need anything to distract herself with. Bella turned out to be quite a nice distraction, even if most of the things she said, she said in order to deliberately rile Hermione. Once Hermione noticed this, she made sure not to react to anything she said that was obviously only said to be contrary, and when faced with that Bella would just say something outrageously flirtatious, which—

“Stop that,” Hermione would snap.

“Stop what?” Bella would ask, as if she didn’t know exactly why Hermione was annoyed.

“Flirting with me.”

But overall Hermione found herself truly enjoying her presence. Even if Bella was a bit…morally ambiguous, to say the least. She had a rather cruel sense of humor and seemed to enjoy whenever Hermione was made uncomfortable, especially if it was because she was flirting with her. But she was also intelligent and interesting and she made the time on the train go so much faster. 

But of course, Hermione was still teeming with nerves about seeing Tom again, and when she was nervous she never really thought clearly, so when Bella casually asked her quite a personal question Hermione hadn’t really meant to reply but—

“Oh no, we haven’t—“ Hermione started after Bella made some casual reference to sex with Tom as if Hermione should have some sort of answer, and then like an idiot, she added, “I mean we sort of almost—but we haven’t—“

“Oh my, “ Bella practically purred, looking far too excited, “You are nervous now, aren’t you?”

“No,” Hermione snapped, “I’m not, I’m just—you asked, so I’m only clarifying—“

“Did you want to?” She asked, “Was he not into it?”

“No—“ Hermione started, intending to explain, but Bella interrupted her. By the look in her eyes, Hermione could tell her interruption was fueled more by the knowledge that it would irritate Hermione rather than genuine excitement.

“Did you not want to?” She asked, “Did he try to force it—“

“No!” Hermione insisted, continuing before Bella could interrupt, “It’s just—I said stop, and he stopped, but I just—I don’t know if I wanted him to stop—I don’t know.”

Bella tilted her head, examining her closely while Hermione internally lectured herself and her complete inability to keep the details of her relationship to herself. Bella looked much too pleased. “Did he hurt you?” She pressed curiously.

“No,” Hermione snapped, then fidgeted a bit in her seat, “He just—well, he did, but—not in a…bad way?”

They sat in silence for a moment, Bella staring at her in overt fascination, her gaze heavy and heady and when she spoke it was with some sort of regret, “Oh, it kills me that you’re straight.” 

“Stop it—“ Hermione started.

“Stop what?” Bella drawled cheekily.

“Shut up!” Hermione snapped, glowering at Bellatrix as she laughed lowly. 

“It’s alright, you know,” Bella started, waiting for Hermione to meet her eyes again before she added, “If you liked it.” 

Hermione felt very hot, suddenly, remembering exactly how much she had liked, and she snapped back, “I know,” Because she did. She had long since come to terms with the fact that what many found unsavory she found quite the opposite, and she certainly wasn’t going to sit there and talk to Bellatrix Black about it. “I’m not talking about this with you,” She said firmly.

“But if you liked it why would you stop?” She pressed, as if Hermione hadn’t spoken.

“Why won’t you stop?” Hermione muttered.

“Oh come on,” Bella rolled her eyes, sounding for the first time quite a bit irritated. Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Who else are you going to talk about this with? Who else knows the side of Tom that you know?”

Hermione felt instantaneously jealous, “You don’t know the side of Tom that I know.” She snapped. Bella grinned.

“Well, no,” She agreed, “Not that side.”

Hermione felt a bit ashamed at the spike of jealousy, because considering as obsessed with Tom as Bella seemed—and for the small amount of time Hermione knew her, obsessed did seem the correct term—she didn’t necessarily seem interested in him. And it wouldn’t matter if she was, Hermione told herself, she was not a jealous person and she didn’t want to start now. 

And Bella was right, too, because Hermione had no idea who she could ever talk to about all of this.

“You won’t tell Tom?” She asked carefully. Bella smiled and drew her lower lip between her teeth before she spoke.

“I would love to keep a secret from Tom with you.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes and ignored that, watching the scenery pass out the window so that she didn’t have to see Bella’s expression while she spoke. “It’s not that I didn’t like it or didn’t want to,” She said slowly, “I mean, I don’t think I would have wanted to have sex anyway, because…we were only dating for a week—“

“Do you have a schedule?” Bellatrix interjected, one dark eyebrow raising slowly up her forehead.

“No,” Hermione snapped, “But I just—I don’t know—he makes me feel really overwhelmed sometimes and I just feel—“ She struggled to put to words the feeling that came over her when he kissed her, and in the end she settled on, “Out of control.”

“And is that a bad thing?” Bellatrix asked.

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly, meeting Bella’s eyes again.

“Is it?” She asked again.

Hermione hesitated this time. “Yes,” She said much more unsurely. 

“Don’t you think sex is all about losing control?” Bella pressed.

“I have to admit,” Hermione said quietly, “I don’t know much about sex in general.” There was a moment of silence in which Bella simply watched her before she sighed rather dramatically.

“What I wouldn’t give to ruin you.” She murmured. Hermione felt her cheeks flame.

“Stop it.” She said sternly.

“Stop what?” Bella asked, hooking the toe of her foot—she had long since kicked her heels off—around the back of Hermione’s ankle. Hermione batted her foot away.

“Bella!” She scolded. 

“You’re not out of control,” Bella said, her tone quiet and sure and a sudden change from her teasing tone from the moment before. Her eyes were dark and Hermione couldn’t quite tear her gaze away. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting something desperately.” 

“Even if its Tom?” Hermione heard herself asking. Bella cocked her head to the side.

“Have you ever wanted anyone else?” She asked.

“No.”

Bella raised one shoulder in a half shrug, “Then what does it matter?”

Hermione wasn’t sure it made her feel any better, but something about the way Bella so flippantly regarded the situation did set her at ease in some way. And it helped to be somewhat candid about the way she felt with Tom, to talk about it with someone who understood what Tom was like. And Bella did understand, Hermione knew. Tom had mentioned Bella had known about Tom’s bout of violence against her fiancé, whom she apparently cared very little about, and yet she remained his friend of some sort. And Hermione found, in the time she had spent with her, she very much wanted to consider her her friend as well.

“I never would have expected you to give me relationship advice,” Hermione admitted, “I would expect you to try to steal me away instead.”

“Would you like me to?” Bella asked. Hermione laughed and looked away.

“No.” She said. 

When the train reached their stop, Bella slid her heels back on and Hermione lifted her book bag and followed her out. She was taller than Hermione thought she was, or maybe that was just the heels. She found she wasn’t as nervous as she had been when she first boarded the train, and she couldn’t tell if that was because of their talk or because of the excitement that started thrumming through her the moment they reached their stop. 

She saw him standing a ways away, and she recognized Rodolphus Lestrange at his side from the photographs she had seen of him plastered throughout magazines. The two of them hadn’t noticed them yet, and Hermione took off across the platform immediately as Bella remained behind, apparently content to let Lestrange come to her rather than the other way around. Lestrange noticed her first, and Tom had only just barely turned around when Hermione launched herself into his arms.

He smelled very strongly of cigarettes, but when she buried her face into his shoulder she could get past it, and she was willing to suffer through that horrid smell anyway if it meant she could feel his arms wrap around her. And they did, immediately, without a hint of hesitation, wrapping around her waist so tightly she could feel every expansion of his chest with each breath he took and it was so fantastically familiar that every ounce of nervousness disappeared in a heartbeat. She had the fleeting thought that she probably shouldn’t feel this happy moments before a funeral.

“Why was Bella on your train?” He murmured at her ear, and she felt laughter bubble up in her chest at the question. She pulled away just enough so that she could glance over her shoulder where Lestrange had gone to greet Bella, their reunion much more civil, his arms looped loosely around her waist. They both glanced in Tom and Hermione’s direction once, twice, once more. 

“I have no idea,” She admitted, looking back at Tom who was staring at the other pair as if they had personally offended him. “I like her, though, we get on.” His eyes immediately shifted to meet hers, narrowing almost imperceptibly, and she knew that expression, the jealous glint in his eyes as familiar to her as anything else in their friendship. “I missed you,” She said pointedly. 

He nodded, one of his hands raising to cradle her jaw as he kissed her, and she was a bit surprised to find that kissing him, as new as it was, still felt just as familiar as hugging him had. She had long since grown accustomed to holding his hand, had more recently found familiarity in holding him, but she hadn’t expected kissing him to feel quite as normal as it did then. She moved her hands from his shoulders in order to wind them through his hair. Something close to a laugh—more like a rough exhalation—let his lips as he reached up to wrap his fingers around her wrists and pull her hands away from his hair. 

“Sorry,” She apologized lightly, not really meaning it but understanding that while his friends were there he might not be her Tom, not entirely, so the perfect hair would stay. Her hands moved to his jaw, her thumbs swiping across his cheeks. Jokingly, she asked, “Do we have to go to the funeral?”

His lips twitched upwards, but for a moment there was something decidedly odd about his expression. Something excited, and she couldn’t for the life of her think of any reason for him to be excited to go to a funeral. “Yes,” He said evenly, but he didn’t say it as if he was annoyed at all to go. She found it odd, given who the funeral was for. It made her a bit uncomfortable to think that Tom would be happy for a funeral, but considering who it was that died, she supposed that was very much like him to be excited for it. “But afterward we can do whatever you like.”

There it was again, his ability to go from the Tom she knew to this version of himself that was somehow still familiar and also extraordinarily different, doting, romantic by his standards. It wasn’t as obvious as when he was pretending to be someone else—it was subtle, like he was still being himself but he was trying to distract her from something. 

“Should we be on our way?” She heard, and looked over her shoulder to see Lestrange and Bella had approached them. Hermione smiled, mostly to be polite, and turned in Tom’s arms—because he did not let go of her, and she had the distinct feeling it was because Bella was present—and stretched her hand out toward Lestrange.

“We haven’t met,” She greeted, “I’m Hermione Granger.”

He smiled, but it seemed strained somehow, and she could only imagine the plethora of reasons he had come up with in his head why she wasn’t worth his time. She kept her hand hovering there in expectant silent until he finally moved, his slick, strained smile stuck on his face while his hand wrapped around hers and her shook it twice.

“It is lovely to finally meet you, Miss Granger,” He greeted. She didn’t like the way he said it, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. 

“We should go,” Hermione said, turning back to look at Tom. She just barely caught the end of his calculative glower in Lestrange’s direction before he turned a much softer gaze onto her. “It starts at ten, right?”

He nodded, and as they set off to leave the platform, Hermione felt more at ease than she had all year.

The worst was yet to come.


	11. Chapter 11

The funeral was empty.

It was a small church where the funeral was held, which was inarguably for the best. It made it a bit less obvious how few people were present. Tom, Hermione, Rodolphus Lestrange and Bellatrix Black sat in the front row, listening to the pastor give the Eulogy which was mostly made up with vague statements about what a ‘unexpected tragedy’ it was and how he would ‘be remembered through his son.’ It was the most uncomfortable Eulogy Hermione had ever heard, because the pastor, for all his kind words, did not appear to like Riddle Sr. very much.

She couldn’t blame him.

Behind them, sporadically through the church strangers knelt and prayed, though Hermione thought perhaps they were there to pray for the dead no matter who they were, and likely they had never spoken to Tom’s father. Other than the four of them in the front row, Hermione wasn’t certain anyone in that room know the man lying in the casket at the front of the church. To be fair, She didn’t think Lestrange or Bella knew him either.

Tom’s arm was wound around Hermione’s waist while they sat in the pew, his body turned partway toward her while he kept his eyes on the pastor giving his father’s Eulogy. He did a good job at pretending to be upset, but she knew him well enough to tell that he wasn’t upset at all. She couldn’t figure out why he was trying to hard—and succeeding, as he always did—to play the part of grieving son when he was anything but. It confused her even more when she considered that someone must have paid for this funeral, for the flowers that sat in front of the casket, for the casket itself, and she couldn’t think of anyone who would pay for this but Tom.

Everything just felt odd. It felt wrong. She couldn’t for the life of her discern why Lestrange and Bella had come, why they were attending a funeral that no one had come to except for the four of them and a few strangers, why Tom hadn’t just let the morgue cremate his father and then chucked the ashes in the bin. And it didn’t help that Tom just seemed so happy—which, all things considered, she might expect if it weren’t for everything else—but it made her uneasy to have him so content at his father’s funeral.

And the timing of his death was so convenient.

She didn’t like that thought, didn’t like the path her mind took when she thought that, so she turned a bit toward Tom, crossing her legs toward him. He took notice of the movement, his fingers curling around her hip as he turned his head to peer down at her. She didn’t look back at him, opting instead to rest her head against his shoulder and block out the words of the pastor and focus instead on the comforting feeling of Tom’s hand on her side. She couldn’t pinpoint what exactly made her feel uneasy, she just knew that she did. Anxiousness was welling up in her chest, and in an effort to combat it she breathed in deep, held her breath there for a moment before letting it go.

“It’s almost over,” She heard Tom murmur, his breath fanning out across her hairline. 

“I just wish he’d stop going on,” She muttered back just as quietly, “There’s no one else here,” She observed, though she kept her head against his chest she felt him shift to cast a subtle glance around the room, “Did you pay for the funeral?” She asked outright.

“Technically, he did.” He answered, and she didn’t have to look up at him to know he had focused his attention back on the casket at the front of the room.

“You certainly seem to find this all hilarious—“ She muttered snappishly, and immediately she felt his hand tighten its grip on her hip. She pulled her head away from his shoulder in order to meet his eyes and saw his brows were furrowed slightly in confusion.

“You’re angry.” He surmised.

“I just think its weird,” She hissed, keeping her tone down so as not to draw attention to the pair of them. Their voices were not taken not of over the sound of the pastor’s speech, “Why are we here? Why are you holding a funeral for him?”

“Appearances,” He answered idly, “I believe you’re the one who first told me that was important.”

She scoffed, clearing her throat when Lestrange glanced over at her from his seat a little ways down the pew from her. She lowered her voice, “Do not hold me accountable for what I said when I was eight.” She looked up at him to see his eyebrow cock up in what she perceived to be amusement, so she continued angrily, “There is no reason for you to keep up appearances as his adoring son.”

“Fine,” He said calmly, “Irony, then.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Irony?” She echoed. 

His eyes left hers to gaze upon the casket once more, something victorious in his gaze that made Hermione feel uneasy. “When I was conceived, he did everything in his power to ensure I was never born,” She watched his face closely while he spoke, “My mother died because of it, but I didn’t. I lived long enough to see him die,” His lips twitched upwards in what was almost a smile, “Listen to the pastor call me his ‘beloved son,’” His eyes snapped back to hers, and the intensity of his dark gaze shocked her, “It’s almost Poetic Justice,” He said. 

She shifted her gaze away, “Poetic justice,” She muttered. 

His fingers unfurled from her hip, drawing lazily up her side as he leaned closer so that his lips were by her ear, “I thought you liked poetry,” He teased, his voice low and his breath hot against her ear. She set her hand on his knee, stopping just short of digging her nails into the fabric of his trousers.

“Stop,” She warned. She felt the quiet huff of breath against her temple that signaled his laugh before his hand which wasn’t around her waist met her hand on his leg, his lips pressing briefly against her temple before he turned his head back to the front. The pastor was wrapping up his Eulogy now, but Hermione was focused on his hand over hers. Silently, she turned her hand over in his so that they were palm-to-palm, running her thumb over the back of his hand.

She didn’t want to think.

The funeral ended and Tom Riddle Sr. was buried in the local cemetery. The four of them decided upon having a drink at the local pub—well, three of them decided, Lestrange seemed to think that there was nothing this town could offer him that wouldn’t offend him somehow, but he accompanied them regardless. Hermione wasn’t necessarily looking forward to spending more time with Tom’s friends than absolutely necessary, but she liked Bella well enough, and she just hoped she acted the same in Lestrange’s company as she had on the train.

Maybe a bit less flirtatious would be preferred, given Tom’s presence and his tendency to grow jealous of anything she spent paid more attention to than him.

They picked the nicest pub the town had, which while not horrible, was certainly homely. Lestrange sneered at the store front and refused to enter at first, until Tom leaned against the storefront and gave him a look that Hermione could not completely understand. Whatever that look meant, Lestrange understood, and him and Bella went in to get a round of pints. Tom pulled out a cigarette and lit it while Hermione watched the other pair head in, and she was certain it must’ve been by habit because when she plucked it from his fingers and threw it away with a glare, he looked genuinely surprised. 

“Absolutely not.” She said severely. “How often do you smoke when I’m not around?”

“Not often,” He said.

“That’s a lie.” She muttered, stepping closer to open his suit jacket and reach into the inner pocket to draw out his pack of cigarettes, intent on throwing them away, but he caught her wrist before she could walk away. He didn’t look angry, mostly he just looked amused.

“I smoke when you’re gone,” He told her.

“Obviously,” She scoffed.

“No,” He clarified, “It calms me, when you're not around to do so.” She paused, the candid confession catching her off guard. She shook her head before she replied.

“Well, I’m here now, so—“ She tossed them onto a nearby table that no one was seated at in leu of walking to the bin to throw them out. “They aren’t needed.” She still felt uneasy, still felt off after the funeral, and it must’ve sounded in her words because she felt his hand tighten briefly around her wrist. His other hand slid around her waist and rested at her back.

“I missed you,” He said, but there was something artificial about the sentiment. She didn’t doubt it was true, exactly, but she doubted his intention when he said it. She took a deep breath through her nose and pretended he hadn’t said anything.

“You certainly look nice,” She said, fingering the lapels of his jacket, “I’ve never seen you look so dressed up.”

“You don’t like it,” He surmised, his fingers dragging up her spine in a distracted motion. 

“I didn’t say that,” She said, and truly she didn’t hate it. He looked handsome, certainly. But he also looked a bit like Lestrange—well groomed and put together and over-priced. When she met his eyes again he was smirking.

“I don’t like your dress either,” He said shortly, and she felt her face screw up in offended confusion before she could stop herself. There was nothing wrong with her dress—it wasn’t as nice or expensive as Bella’s, certainly, it was much simpler, but it was pretty and it looked fine.

“What’s wrong with my dress?” She demanded. 

He leaned in, his hand flat against her back so he could pull her closer, and when his lips reached her ear he said lowly, “I want it off,”

Hermione felt like she was burning. “Tom.“ She said sharply, proud that she was able to remain stern even when she felt like she suddenly couldn’t breathe. He was uncharacteristically happy—at least he was more laid back and affectionate than she had seen him in a while—and she couldn’t help but feel a bit apprehensive about it. Something just felt off about all of this and she couldn’t figure out what. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to know, but her mind continued to turn regardless.

“Alright love birds,” Hermione heard Bella interrupt, and honestly she had never been so grateful for an interruption. Tom gave Bella a look filled with contempt. “Shall we sit out here?” She gestured to the empty table near them, and Hermione quickly nodded and pulled away from Tom, taking a pint from Bella’s hand as Lestrange walked out of the pub with two more with a grimace.

“Cheap beer,” He scoffed, handing one to Tom on his way to the table Bella had already sat at, Hermione following after. Tom took a seat beside Hermione, while Lestrange paused at the end of the table where the pack of cigarettes remained. He picked it up, “I believe this is yours—“ He started, intent on handing it back to Tom, but Hermione interrupted unthinkingly.

“No,” She said sternly, “Throw that away.”

She realized a moment after she spoke that it was probably a mistake to order Lestrange around, because he was looking at her like she had just horrendously insulted him. She hadn’t meant to be bossy, truly, but she would be damned if he handed those cigarettes back to Tom, and so it was in her nature to get a bit bossy when she was irritated. She met Lestrange’s eyes—narrowed and angry as if he thought he could intimidate her into taking it back—and waited for him to at the very least lower his arm which still held the cigarettes midway between him and Tom.

“Throw them away,” Tom agreed at her side, though his tone held some degree of warning in it. She watched the way Lestrange’s eyes snap to meet Tom’s, then back to hers, then Tom’s again. She thought, for a single moment, she might’ve seen something flash across his expression like fear, and for a single moment she was startled by it. But when she recalled that this was the man Tom had beat into a hospital visit, she figured it was understandable that he should be afraid. 

She had almost forgotten that had happened. And Bella had been there, too. The memory made Hermione feel decidedly uncomfortable in their company.

Lestrange did as they said, in the end. He turned and walked the three steps to the bin to throw the pack away before returning to the table with a displeased turn to his lips. He threw Hermione a particularly nasty look before turning his eyes down to his beer, taking a sip with a grimace. Hermione decided in that moment she never wanted to be around Lestrange again unless absolutely necessary.

“Come on, love,” She heard Bella say, and she watched her reach out to lay her hand against the back of his neck, “You aren’t attractive when you sulk.”

“Don’t be cute, Bella,” Lestrange snapped, shrugging her hand off. Bellatrix didn’t seem at all effected by his irritation, “You certainly seem to be in good spirits today,” Lestrange observed, eyeing her shrewdly.

“Well,” Bella drawled, her eyes settling on Hermione with a smile, “Must be the company.”

Hermione averted her eyes to her drink, taking a slow sip. 

“Well I happen to find the company somewhat lacking,” Lestrange muttered in reply, but before Hermione could angrily demand what he meant by that, his eyes met hers and he addressed her directly for the first time, “I hear you live in London?”

It was a poor attempt at conversation, mostly due to the way he asked it like he would rather throw himself off the nearest cliff than speak to her. Still, she answered, “Yes, I do.”

“How do you find it?” He asked, no longer meeting her eyes and instead glancing idly at their surroundings as he took a sip of his beer and then sneered at it as if it offended him. 

“Fine,” She answered slowly, confused by the question mostly because she couldn’t figure out why he was asking it. 

“I can’t imagine living in a council house—“ He muttered, more to himself than to her but the statement still caught her off guard.

“I don’t—“ She started, glancing at tom for a moment but he seemed just as confused by the statement as she was—even if he didn’t overtly show it—so she turned back to Lestrange, “No, my parents own our house, we don’t—we don’t live in a council house.”

“Ah,” Was all he said in reply, his eyebrows arching in surprise, “I apologize,”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Hermione snapped, “There’s nothing shameful about living in a council house.” If his expression was anything to go by—eyes narrows and lips pursed and eyebrows pinched together—he certainly did not agree. Hermione knew that she should probably let it go, but she had never been able to let something like this go. Ignorance and prejudice were never something Hermione could quietly abide by. “It’s no surprise that council houses are needed what with the housing prices in London—“

Lestrange scoffed, an angry, dismissive sound that had Hermione bristling immediately, “If people cannot afford to live somewhere, I see no problem with telling them to simply leave—“

“Are you joking?” She asked, “They’re already being kicked out of their homes—that’s the problem—“

“If they can’t afford it—“

“They can’t afford it because of the rate of unemployment and the pitifully low minimum wage—“

She felt Tom’s hand on her thigh and it startled her into furious quiet. It wasn’t a warning, really, but perhaps reminder; of where they were, of who she was talking to, of the meaningless of her argument when taking into consideration who she was speaking to. She huffed, taking a long drink before setting her hand over Tom’s on her leg as a sign that she wasn’t planning on starting a brawl or anything of the sort. “I suppose there is a lot you wouldn’t understand, with you background.” She said in leu of an argument.

Evidently, he took it as an offense. “My background?” He echoed in what she assumed was supposed to sound dangerous, but she had been dealing with Tom for years so she wasn’t certain anything Lestrange said could scare her.

“Yes,” She said sternly, unaware of her nails which were digging into the back of Tom’s hand, “Your money. You’ve never had to worry about losing your home.”

“Neither have you, apparently,” He fired back.

“No, but I know people who have—“ She started to explain, but he interrupted her again.

“People like Riddle?” He asked, point blank, and Hermione felt herself oddly offended on Tom’s behalf. It was obvious how Lestrange felt about those with less money, the way he viewed people of what he perceived were lesser backgrounds, and while Hermione logically knew there was nothing offensive about drawing attention to Tom’s humble beginnings, there was something decidedly vicious in Lestrange’s tone when he said it. She didn’t even bother to check Tom’s reaction before she snapped.

“Why are you here, Lestrange?” She asked though gritted teeth, “You’ve spent your own money to travel by plane to attend a funeral of a man you never knew, in the company of people you don’t even seem to like,” She could tell that Lestrange was grinding his teeth, glowering at her from across the table, a white-knuckled grip on his glass. And some part of her knew what she was asking, knew that it was not his choice to be here, knew that Tom had persuaded or threatened or forced him to come for whatever his reason, so that was why she pushed it, “What would possess someone to do that, I wonder?”

It was silent at the table for a long moment after she spoke, and Hermione got the feeling again that there was something that went unsaid that everyone but her understood, some secret that she wasn’t in on. She felt Tom’s thumb stroke the outside of her thigh where his hand still rested, a calming gesture, a silent approval or expression of gratitude or something. She kept her eyes on Lestrange and waited for his reply, but it never came.

“Well, this is certainly much more entertaining than I thought it would be,” Bella purred, drawing Hermione’s glower away from Lestrange. “I think the four of us should spend time together more often.”

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said curtly.

“Tired of me already?” Bella teased.

“No, it is not your company that bothers me,” Hermione clarified, as if it wasn’t obvious already how much she loathed Lestrange’s presence. Lestrange, for his part, remained largely silent, though she didn’t bother looking up to see why. 

“I knew you were warming up to me, love,” Bella said, and she stretched her leg out under the table to hook her bare foot around the back of Hermione’s ankle like she had on the train. Hermione jerks in surprise, which would have been easy to hide if Tom’s hand wasn’t still on her thigh.

“Bella,” She chastised lightly with a slightly flustered laugh.

“Bella,” Tom warned with much more severity.

“Sorry,” Bella apologized, though it was obvious she didn’t mean it. 

“What is this?” Lestrange sneered at the transaction, “Do you two know each other?”

“No, we met on the train,” Hermione explained shortly, casting her eyes briefly back up to meet Bella’s before immediately dropping back to the drink in her hands when she saw that Bella’s gaze was fixed firmly on her. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, it’s just that Bella had a phenomenal way of making Hermione flustered without even trying. Tom’s hand shifted from her thigh, drifting around her back so that his arm rested comfortable around her waist, and a subtle glance told her he was watching Bella very carefully.

“Well, you certainly seem to have taken a shine to her,” Lestrange muttered, his own dark glower fixed on Bella as well. Bella, for her part, seemed to be loving the attention.

“Oh well,” She said calmly, taking a long sip of her drink and keeping her attention firmly on Hermione and smiling nearly conspiratorially, “Can’t blame me. She’s irresistible.” 

The comment probably would have been ignored if Hermione hadn’t blushed, but it didn’t help that both Tom and Lestrange had immediately zeroed in on her as soon as Bella spot as if her reaction would decide how they perceived the situation. She felt Tom’s fingers dig into her waist.

“Oh, Roddy,” Bellatrix cooed, reaching up to grab Lestrange’s face and lightly shake his head side to side, “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” 

Lestrange seemed to lose his temper, then, snatching her wrist and twisting it away from his face. The movement startled Hermione, but not as much as the subtle wince that left Bella’s lips as he did it. Hermione wasn’t accustomed to seeing overt violence in general—unless it came from Tom, and even then he usually kept that out of her line of sight—but she especially wasn’t used to seeing violence between people who claimed to be in a relationship. She supposed she knew, in some way, that Bella and Rodolphus were hardly in a real relationship. To her it seemed that Bella liked to anger people and Lestrange was an easy target, not to mention Bella’s admission that she wanted Lestrange for his money and social status. Knowing that, and seeing Bella’s nonplussed expression as if she hadn’t been all that bothered or surprised when Lestrange lashed out, it did nothing to quell Hermione’s temper, and before she could stop herself she was kicking Lestrange as hard as she could under the table.

“Don’t touch her,” She snapped through gritted teeth. 

“You boorish—“ He started furiously. He had dropped Bella’s wrist when she kicked him—and Bella was currently staring at Hermione with the first genuine look of surprise she had worn since she met her—so his hand was free to grab his beer and throw it off the table in some sort of tantrum. It hit the ground and shattered but Hermione didn’t flinch. “Uncivilized—“ He continued, as if he wasn’t the one throwing a savage tantrum outside of a pub. His hand hovered between them, his finger extended as if he was about to lecture her. She was ready to slap it out of her face when Tom intervened.

He reached across the table, and with his hand that wasn’t wound around her waist he gripped the back of Rodolphus’s neck and slammed his face down on the table. Hermione did jump this time, surprised by his intervention since he had been sitting silently at her side until that moment. Lestrange immediately reared back up, gripping his nose, and Hermione thought she might’ve seen blood. “We’re going to the manor,” Tom spoke evenly, as if he hadn’t just brutally assaulted his friend. 

Hermione didn’t argue, because truly she had been tired of Lestrange’s presence from the moment she met him, so she nodded and quickly stood with Tom, stepping away from the table and casting a quick, apologetic glance at Bella. Bella didn’t meet her eyes, however, as she was too busy smiling at Lestrange like she had never seen anything more entertaining. Tom leaned over the table after he stood, and Hermione was fascinated by the way Lestrange’s long string of curses immediately stopped and he stared, terrified, at Tom. “You will speak to me before you leave.”

He nodded, his hands clutching at his face, and Tom straightened, slid his arm around her waist again and walked away, pinning her to his side so that she had to do an awkward half-jog in order to keep up with his strides. He was angry, that much was obvious by the set of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. She couldn’t blame him really—she probably hadn’t needed to react to Lestrange’s presence the way she did. He didn’t speak until they reached the manor, and once they were in the front door his arm slipped from her waist and he took three long strides into the house as Hermione shut the door. 

“He’s horrible,” She defended herself before he could speak, “You can’t blame me. You lose your temper all the time—“

“Have you not aged since you were seven?” He asked, surprisingly lightly considering his expression, “Do you still attempt to pick a fight with everyone you meet?”

“No,” She said, crossing her arms across her chest and meeting his eyes from across the room. They hadn’t moved past the entryway, Tom standing by the stairs as she remained by the door. “You said yourself I am not very threatening.”

He was quiet for some time, dark eyes burning into her across the short distance between them. When he spoke it was quiet, and while his tone was soft his expression was no less angry, “Like a rabbit.” He remembered. The moment of nostalgia felt somewhat out of place considering where they were, what had just happened, and the tumultuous expression which remained on his face.

“You’re angry with me,” She guessed. His jaw twitched, and instead of answering right away he crossed the distance between them so he stood in front of her. She watched him as he moved, waited for him to speak as his hands sought out her waist.

“You seem oddly concerned for Bella’s welfare, considering you only just met her,” He commented after a moment. 

“Of course I’m concerned,” She snapped, “Lestrange was physically abusing her right in front of me—of course I would be concerned—you should be concerned.”

“I don’t care about Bella,” He replied cuttingly.

“Well, I do.” She fired back.

“Obviously,” He seethed, but he didn’t say anything else. Hermione silently observed him for a quiet moment, examining the unhappy slant to his mouth. When she realized exactly what he was angry about she let out a loud, semi-melodramatic sigh and rested her head against the door behind her. 

“You’re jealous again.” She muttered. She didn’t feel exactly angry—Tom’s jealousy as something she had certainly gotten used to, even if it was exhausting to deal with—but she certainly didn’t need him dwelling in feelings of jealousy lest he turn to violence to feel better. She couldn’t help but admit that it almost made her feel calmer to see him jealous because she was used to this, it wasn’t strange and jarring and confusing and unsettling like everything else that day had been. He glowered down at her.

“Again?” He echoed.

“You’re always jealous of someone,” She griped, her hands gripping his cheeks, “Can’t you just, for once, share me with other company without getting insanely, unnecessarily jealous of everyone?”

His hands wrapped around her wrists, pulling her hands away from his face and pinning them against the door behind her. He loomed over her, stepping that bit closer so that there was no longer any room between them. “That depends on what you mean by sharing,” He murmured, his anger seeming to fade now that it had been acknowledged for what it was—or perhaps he was just distracting himself. Hermione smiled despite her annoyance.

“Well, since you’re offering—“ She joked, and she felt his hands tighten on her wrists.

“Hermione—“ He started warningly.

“I’m joking,” She assured him, tipping her chin up so that there was scarcely an inch between their lips. He didn’t move forward, though. He kept her firmly pinned and refused to kiss her, so after a moment of silence, hoping for a reaction, she said, “I only ever want you.”

It worked, and she heard a sharp exhale on his part before his lips were against hers. It felt good to just kiss him, to stop talking about his horrible friends and this horrible day, to stop thinking for a moment and just focus on the feel and taste of him. Her hands flexed where they were trapped against the door, but rather than let her go so she could touch him, he dragged her wrists up above her head so he could hold them there with one hand, his other curling around her back to press her against him more firmly, his teeth catching her lower lip. She whimpered against his mouth, that familiar heat coiling in her stomach when his tongue swept across hers. 

“I missed you,” She breathed against his mouth, because she couldn’t remember if she had said it already and she wanted him to know. He didn’t say anything in response, but he released her wrists in order to wrap his arms around her waist so that he enveloped her, surrounded her entirely. Her hands immediately moved to his hair, her fingers mussing up his perfect waves. She felt him huff a breathy laugh against her lips, and when she curled her fingers against his hair and tugged, his dug his nails into her back in retribution and she sighed against his mouth. 

His hands moved, gripped at her thighs to lift her up, pinning her against the door with her legs around his waist. She started to feel that familiar spiraling feeling, light-headed and breathless, out of her mind with want for him. It still scared her a bit, sent her heart pounding in her chest, but she thought that maybe Bella had been right when she said that sex was about losing control. So she took a deep breath, breathed him in, tangled her tongue with his and delighted in the feeling of his hands sliding under her dress to grip at her hips, skin-on-skin. He tore his mouth away from hers to trail his lips down her throat, pausing to pay special attention to her pulse when she let out a breathy moan. 

Her eyes fluttered open, and she remembered where they were. Letting out a breathy laugh she dragged her nails lightly down his scalp, whimpering without meaning to when he scraped his teeth across her throat. “Tom,” She started, “We—“ His lips had trailed down to her shoulder, and when she started to speak he drew the flesh between his teeth, a painful sort of pleasure that had her moaning deep and low in her throat before she could finish what she was saying. He liked the sound of it, if the hands clutching at her waist told her anything. “We shouldn’t be doing this here,” She said, her voice shaking a bit, “He could have died in here for all we know—“

“No,” He breathed against her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth, “That would be the sitting room.”

It felt as if her mind was kick-started into overdrive. Her hands slipped from his hair to clutch at his shoulders, and an icy feeling settled over her when she asked, “How do you know where he died?”

Tom paused. Neither of them moved, Hermione’s legs still wrapped around his waist and his hands still wrapped around the bare skin of her waist. She heard the quiet thump that signified he had rested his forehead against the door above her shoulder. His pause made everything worse, his hesitance to answer the question sent her heart into a frenzy and she tried not to show that she feared his answer. Still, neither moved.

“I was here,” He answered after an extended silence, “When he died.”

Hermione pulled in a slow breath, and in a low voice she echoed, “You were here?” Another moment of silence followed, and in place of her panic Hermione started to feel angry. She gritted her teeth and pulled breath after calming breath through her nose and waited, waited for him to elaborate, waited for him to explain. 

She thought something about this whole situation felt off. She had known.

“Yes,” He answered. 

“Seems oddly convenient,” She seethed, her voice starting out soft but gradually growing in both volume and vitriol as she went on, “You convince him to include you in his will and then months later you go to visit and he dies of a heart attack—“

“Hermione,” He began sternly, as if he was going to tell her to stop, to calm down. She dropped her legs from his waist, pushed hard against his chest so he as forced to let her down. When she saw his face he had shut down, his expression shuttered so that she had no way of knowing what he was thinking, but the fact that he thought to hide told her everything she needed to know.

“What the hell is going on?” She demanded, shoving him further away to give her space, to give her room to think. His eyes flashed, and his hands snatched up her wrists to stop her assault before she wrenched her hands away. 

“You’re getting angry for no reason,” He said evenly.

“So—what—this funeral this—inviting me here, what is it? Is this all a big joke?” She was losing her inner battle to stay calm, unable to even meet his eyes as she ranted, prompted forward by his calm non-denials and hesitancy, “Part of your—your fucking poetic justice?”

“You’re overreacting,” He said calmly.

“You’re lying,” She spat, her temper spiking, “Stop lying to me—“

“What do you want me to say?” He hissed, his temper rising along with hers. He kept himself well contained, she noted, given the fact that any loss of temper with him usually resulted in physical violence. He didn’t look particularly angry, his face still shuttered in that way he often did. Standing opposite him as he stared down at her with that forced-blank face, she was reminded of every other time they fought, every time they fell out, every time it seemed that their relationship was taking a nose-dive, but in the midst of her anger she couldn’t find it within herself to feel sorry for it. She averted her eyes from his to the doorway that led to the sitting room where she had sat beside him across from his father all those months ago. She sped toward it, rushing past Tom and into the sitting room as he followed behind her.

She stopped a few steps in, staring at the couch where she had sat before. She could still remember him, that horrible man, sitting across the room sneering at them. He was dead now, she knew, and while she didn’t mourn him necessarily—and it seemed there wasn’t anyone else who mourned him either—the thought that his death hadn’t been an accident was sending her into a panic. She felt like she could hardly breathe.

“You didn’t,” She said after a moment of silence, and when she whirled around Tom was there, directly behind her, staring down at her with that same blank face, “Tell me you didn’t do it—“

“If you’d like to accuse me of something, by all means—“ He started, but she didn’t let him finish.

“You killed him,” She spat, her voice quiet because she could barely bring herself to say it. And then she waited. Waited for him to say she was wrong, waited for him to give her some disbelieving look and confess to something less horrifying, less horrible. But he didn’t say anything, he just stared at her in silence with that stupid blank face—“Answer me, did you or did you not—“

“Yes.” He said. 

There was a moment of silence following his confession, a moment for Hermione’s head to spin and her heart to go wild and her mind to go into a frenzy. She felt like she was going to be sick, remembering his excitement at the funeral, the almost giddy way in which he greeted her when she arrived. She wasn’t surprised, not really, she didn’t think she had any right to be, but she was angry and disgusted and terrified and she felt like she was going to burst out crying if he just kept standing there as if nothing was wrong.

“What is wrong with you?” She finally exploded. Tom gave no reaction other than the clenching of his jaw. “How can you just stand there like—like nothing is wrong—“

“What does it matter?” He asked cuttingly, “You said yourself the best thing he could do for me is die.”

“Don’t you dare,” She snapped, “act as if I should be anything less than horrified—what if you were caught? What if—“ She stopped herself, a dry sort of sob escaped her that shocked both her and Tom before she continued, “No, no, that doesn’t matter,” She wasn’t sure who she was talking to at this point, him or her, “You deserve to be caught, you—you—“ She dug her fingers into her hair and pulled, wanting to scream. 

“Don’t pretend you care that he’s dead,” Tom seethed, his voice taking on that nasty tone it always did when they fought, “He was a waste.”

“I don’t care that he’s dead!” She snapped furiously, “I care that you killed him—“

He was on her in a second, one hand covering her mouth and the other pulling her hand away from his shoulder when she tried to shove him immediately away. “Keep your voice down,” He snapped. She wrenched his hand away from her mouth.

“Don’t touch me—“ She started.

“Don’t act surprised,” He sneered, “You know what he did, what he was like—you saw that funeral, no one mourns him—“ She tried to wrench away from him but he didn’t let her go, shoving her backward until her knees hit the edge of the couch. He kept her there so that she had nowhere to run, no where to look other than at him. “Yes, I killed him. Quietly, with no violence, no bloodshed, we sat down for tea and he died—and you and I both know he is far more useful in death than he ever would be in life—“

“How can you talk about people like they’re objects—you cant just kill people to get what you want—“

“I can,” He said, “I did.”

“Let go of me.” She commanded.

“No.” 

“Get off of me, Tom—“ 

His fingers curled around her arms with bruising force, holding her still while she tried to push away from him, “What will you do?” He asked, a cruel tone to his voice, “Run away back to London and never speak to me again?” She stopped struggling, her breath still uneven as she glared up at him, “Distance yourself from your friend, the murderer? Or maybe you’ll turn me in?” There was a moment of telling silence, a pause that he deliberately took to offer her the chance to say that was exactly what she would do. But she remained silent, just as they both knew she would. 

“You wouldn’t,” He said, quieter now, with less viciousness but the same amount of anger. “You’ll run off to London and tell yourself that the only reason you don’t turn me in is because you don’t have proof,” She was frozen, and he must’ve known she had finished trying to push away from him because his fingers released her arms in order to trail up over her shoulders, until he was holding her head between his hands so she couldn’t look away, “When the real reason is you care more about me than you do your rigid, black-and-white morality, and you’ll hide away in London until you can’t hide anymore.” He paused, and his voice wasn’t at all smooth anymore, it wasn’t calm. Ir was somewhat ragged and desperate and though he still had that blasted mask Hermione still felt like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “And then you’ll come back, because it doesn’t matter what I do, I could kill a whole town of people and you will always come back—because you’re mine—“

Angry tears had long since sprung to her eyes, and at his last words she finally snapped into action. She jerked away, flinging his hands away from her, and then before she even knew what she was doing—fueled entirely by anger and shock and fear—she smacked Tom across the face as hard as she could.

It was silent, and the slap seemed to echo throughout the room. Her voice shaking with both anger and tears, she seethed, “I do not belong to you, Tom Riddle.”

She was scarcely a moment away from bursting into tears, overwhelmed by what she knew Tom had done and everything he had said—because she knew he was right. She was ashamed to admit to herself that she hadn’t even thought of leaving him, she hadn’t thought of cutting him out, she had only been angry about what he had done and how he had lied to her. She had felt overwhelmed and upset and she felt like she was torn between knowing that what he had done was horrible and unforgivable, and knowing that she forgave him just the same. She hated herself for it, hated herself for all those years she had spent forgiving him for things he didn’t deserve to be forgiven for. She wanted to scream, to hit him again, to ask him what have you done? What have you done to me?

But he hadn’t moved, his hands no longer reaching or her. They remained at his side, and his head turned away from her from where it had wound up from the force of her slap. Neither moved, Hermione staring at him and waiting for him to lash back, to say something else horrible. But he just remained frozen, no movement except for the flutter of his lashes when he blinked. Something welled in her throat and she really felt like she was about to cry, waiting, waiting, waiting—

When he spoke, it was quiet, but it seemed to fill the room nonetheless. He didn’t look at her when he said it, didn’t turn his head back to her. She watched the reddening skin of his cheek and he muttered solemnly, “I belong to you.”

She couldn’t breathe, and she had to clamp her lower lip between her teeth to stop her lips from twisting with the need to break down in tears. It was the strangest confession he ever could have given, she thought, because in all her dealings with Tom Riddle she had always felt like he had a much stronger hold on her than she ever had on him. He still hadn’t looked at her, and it didn’t seem as if he was ashamed or uncomfortable. His words simply acted as a response to her own, a challenge that said I’m already yours, before you were ever mine. 

He turned his eyes to meet hers before he turned his face, expression still blank but not hiding, and she felt like she honestly hated him as much as she loved him. 

Someone cleared their throat.

Both Hermione and Tom’s heads snapped to the side, the intimacy of the moment gone in an instance, and Lestrange stood in the doorway of the sitting room staring between the pair of them with poorly concealed shock. “I was only…” He started, but he trailed off as if he forgot what he was about to say. 

“What.” Tom seethed, every ounce of anger from the moment before she slapped him returning tenfold. 

“I was—you said to speak to you before I—“ Hermione couldn’t help but take notice that the normally articulate, snobbish Rodolphus Lestrange certainly became an inarticulate mess when speaking with Tom. She considered his presence at the funeral, and she wondered if he knew. She wondered if he was there too, when Riddle Sr. died. She couldn’t blame him for his fear, if he had seen Tom in that moment.

“Leave.” Tom ordered.

“But I thought—“

“I will speak to you later.” Tom warned shortly, and Lestrange just stared between the two of them in shock. “Leave.”

He did. 

In the moments following Lestrange’s hurried departure, Hermione tried to make a decision. She tried to weigh her options, tried to think outside of her affection for her friend. She tried to discern what she wanted, what was the best decision to make, but she couldn’t. Thoughts came too fast, her heart was pounding distractedly loud in her ears, and she still felt like she wanted to cry. At the moment all she wanted was for Tom to wrap her in his arms and just not say anything, let her think they’re kids again, laying in the park and talking about the books they had traded the week before. 

Tom let her think. He stood in front of her and watched her in silence.

“I want to go back to London,” She said after a time, “I want you to stay here.” His jaw clenched. “I just want time to think.”

There was a beat, before he asked, “How long?”

“A couple weeks?” She suggested, looking up from her feet to meet his eyes. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t look as if he planned to argue either, “I want time to decide what…what to choose.”

“You’ll choose me.” He promised her.

“Don’t tell me what I’ll choose.” She said firmly. 

For a moment, they stood in silence, and Hermione wondered if he waited so long on his response so that he could look upon her for a moment longer. After what felt like an eternity, he nodded once. “Two weeks.” He said.

She left him there.

—

As was becoming a habit for Hermione, she returned home and lied to her mother about Tom.

But then, that had been a habit for a very long time.

She told her the funeral was fine, and Tom was fine, and everything was fine. She told her she would see him in a couple weeks once he had everything settled with the legalities of inheriting his father’s riches. And when her mother smiled and chucked her under the chin and told Hermione not to look so glum, that she would see Tom soon, Hermione just smiled and nodded and let her think that was the reason she was blue.

Part of her believed Tom when he said she would choose him. She couldn’t imagine choosing anything else, at this point, but she figured she owed herself time. She owed herself time alone to sort out how she felt, sort out what she thought should come next. 

The first few days she didn’t think about it at all. She spoke of trivial things with her mother and went shopping with Lavender and told her very firmly to drop it when she brought up Tom, she spent time with Harry and Ron and tried to have fun during her first few days of summer holiday. She went to extraordinary lengths to distract herself, she tried playing football with Ginny and that went about as well as to be expected, so she wound up sitting on the sidelines talking to Luna Lovegood about some strange conspiracy theory that Hermione absolutely did not understand but she nodded along anyway. She read three books in one day, hated two of them but the third was alright. She even started sorting through her entire room, unfurling rubbish bag after rubbish bag to fill it with clothes to donate or papers to recycle.

It was then, after forty-five solid minutes of convincing herself that it was the right thing to do to donate at least a few of her books to charity, when she pulled a worn copy of Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate events and flipped through it, when something dropped out.

She picked it up off the floor, the little plastic half-heart necklace, and turned it over in her hands. The glitter that had once covered the plastic had mostly worn off, scattered around the pages of her book. She had forgotten about it, forgotten she used it as a bookmark because obviously she was not putting that around her neck again. And she started to cry.

It wasn’t a horrible sort of crying, it wasn’t painful or desperate. It was mostly fueled by stress and anger, it was an unleashing of emotions that she had tried to bottle up the moment she came home. She cradled the book and the necklace against her chest and cried angry, frustrated tears for thirty minutes or so until she decided that she could keep the books, she had sorted through enough of her things, she could stop now.

She already missed him, which was silly given the circumstances. She was still angry at him, angry that he was such a sociopath and that he had lied and that he had put her in this situation at all, she was angry that he had such grey morals, angry that he only ever thought abut himself—or her—but never anyone else. She was angry that she lied to everyone about him, angry that he was so fake to everyone but her, angry that when he was upset he would say things that made her feel horrible only because he would say everything she didn’t want to say aloud. 

She was always a bit angry at him about something. As a child she was angry that he used violence to help her. As she got older she was angry that he treated her like a possession, that he would try to exert some sort of authority over her. She was always angry when he used unnecessary violence or said something unnecessarily cruel about someone who didn’t deserve it, or when he smiled those fake smiles and laughed that horrible, fake laugh. And after a moment of thought, she realized that it never mattered to her, not really. Because while he made her angry, he was still Tom.

He was the scary boy who befriended her when she was young and friendless, who shared her love of learning, both kids trapped in an education structure that didn’t allow for them to reach further than whatever test they were taught to pass. He was her friend who protected her against bullies and calmed her—or attempted to—when she became upset. He was the cold, stoic boy who held her hand, who laid in the park at her side and watched the clouds, who changed his entire outward persona when she asked him to so that she could remain his friend. 

He had always been dark, always been morally ambiguous to say the least. And she had lied for him and ignored it because she loved him and wanted him to remain her friend.

It only took her a week to decide what she wanted, to choose him, but she gave herself another week just to be sure.

“Do you didn’t, like…break up or anything, did you?” Lavender asks one evening, quietly and to the side while Harry and Ron were caught up in some other conversation. Hermione wasn’t surprised that she brought it up again, she had actually been more surprised that it had taken her so long to bring it up already. They were in a crowded pub, one of the more popular ones around London, and it was filled to the brim with people. She didn’t know most of them, although she thought she recognized that cocky fellow Cormac McLaggen flirting with someone at the bar, and she was absolutely certain she saw Draco Malfoy a moment ago, though neither of the two seemed to notice her. 

“No,” She answered Lavender, “We…he’s sorting stuff out in Little Hangleton, so—“

“It’s just that you were really snappy about him, is all,” Lavender interrupted, as if she was unhappy with Hermione’s answer. “You can tell me.”

Hermione gave her a look, remembering the way Lavender had blurted out everything Hermione told her to the first people who would listen the last time, and Lavender smiled a bit sheepishly.

“You know, you never explicitly told me not to tell anyone about that, so…” She shrugged, a sort of half-cheeky shrug that expressed she was at least a little bit sorry about blurting it out. Hermione let out a huff of a laugh. 

“Yeah, well…Tom and I are fine. We had a bit of a tiff—“ Understatement of the century, but Hermione was used to lying about Tom by now, “But we’re alright. I’ll be seeing him in a week.”

Lavender nodded, “That’s good.” She said genuinely, “If you two broke up, I mean—love doesn’t exist.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “You’re being ridiculous.” She muttered. 

“Lavender!” Ron called out, interrupting their quiet side conversation, “Back me up here! Tell Harry how I wiped the floor with that sod from Liverpool—“

It was easy to have fun, and Hermione wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty about that or not. She thought a lot about her lack of care for the life that had been lost, ended too early, but one look at that funeral told her there hadn’t been anyone to mourn him, anyone to feel the pain of his loss. She couldn’t imagine living life so miserable that the only ones to mourn you are the church parishioners who only mourn because no one else will, and perhaps the staff who he paid to come clean his house or do up his garden once or twice a week because they would be losing their wages. Was it horrible of her to move on with life so easily when his life was over?

The night went by quickly, Harry and Ron buying rounds of drinks so that the girls could join in. Harry still wasn’t quite legal, but the bartender was a friend of his godfather and apparently didn’t care whether Harry was legal or not. Lavender got horrifically drunk, giggling and falling over and throwing herself at Ron every chance she got. Harry drank only a little, keeping sober for Ron’s sake who got equally as drunk as Lavender. 

When it was over, the four of them stood at the bus stop together, Lavender and Ron laughing uproariously in between make-out sessions on the bench. Harry stood sheepishly at Hermione’s side.

“I gotta get these two home,” He said, “Or at least to the Weasley home—will you be alright? Do you want to come with us and then I can walk you home—“

“No,” Hermione laughed, shaking her head, “I barely drank anything, and I’m just a short bus ride away from here—get those two lunatics home.” 

He did. He herded them onto the next bus that came and smiled at Hermione as he left, “Call me when you get home!” He said.

“Promise!” She replied.

“If I don’t get a call in twenty minutes I’ll be upset!” He added just as the bus drive shut the doors in his face. She laughed and waved after him as the bus drove away, watched through the windows as Ron and Lavender stumbled and fell over when it took off. 

The night was warm, surprisingly warm for a British summer. She was grateful it wasn’t raining, and while the sky was too flooded with city lights to see the stars she could see the moon, full and round and bright. She missed Tom again, as she often did in moments alone. She checked her phone after a moment of gazing at the moon, looking for something to occupy her time before her bus arrived. there was a text from Bella that she still hadn’t responded to—she wasn’t even sure how she got her number, to be honest, but apparently she was in London and wanted to meet up—she planned on responding soon. That was another discussion she would need to have with Tom when they spoke again. She liked Bella, and Tom’s ridiculous jealousy was not going to force her to give up on a new friend. 

It wasn’t as if Hermione made new friends often, after all. 

His friend Lestrange—or whatever she could call him, because they certainly were not friends—was another story. She would be happy if she never had to see him again in her life. He made her uncomfortable for the obvious reasons, he was rude and snobbish and completely disconnected with the realities people without money experience. But on top of that he was volatile, he was easily angered, he didn’t seem like the type to hesitate in wiping someone out.

She thought he was a lot like Tom, in many ways, just lacking in the self-control. 

But Bella, she liked. Bella she wanted to keep as a friend without fear of Tom’s violent temper lashing out every time he thought she was flirting with her. Honestly, it wasn’t as if Bella was legitimately interested in her, she just liked to cause trouble.

Feeling like she had put off her response long enough, she unlocked her phone and began thing out a quick response to Bella.

Her arm was jerked back suddenly, twisted behind her back at a painful angle. Her phone went clattering to the ground, and she wasn’t able to see who was behind her. Panicked, feeling light headed at how quickly her blood rushed to her legs to allow her to flee, she barely registered the knife at her neck until a voice she didn’t recognize sounded behind her. “Don’t scream.” It said.

She screamed as loud as she could.


	12. Chapter 12

She heard the echoes of her scream reverberating through the dark, quiet street moments after the stranger whirled her around and clasped his hand over her mouth. Her breaths came quick, loud, stuttering, the presence of his hand forcing her to breathe through her nose even though it didn’t feel like she could get enough air that way. It was dark, but she was certain she didn’t know this man. Her eyes, wide and terrified, flittered across his features and tried to find familiarity in them but she could find none.

The man, for his part, stood in silence and stared at her with eyes that, while not as terrified, were certainly as wide. Was it in anger? She couldn’t tell. “I told you not to scream,” He seethed, his knife wielded in the hand that was holding tight to her arm to keep her from running away. She felt the cold steel press into her sleeve.

Wildly, she pulled away, and with her free arm she pushed against him until he was forced to move his hand away from her mouth to hold her still. She screamed again hoping that the patrons of the pub down the road might be able to hear her, but the street around them was so quiet, it seemed to swallow up her scream as soon as it left her throat. He shoved her against the glass barrier of the bus stop, his hand clasping over her mouth again. “Stop it—just—fucking shut up.” He snapped.

She twisted her head away and tried to knee him in the crotch, “Get off of me—“ She demanded, but in her panic it sounded more like a plea.

He swore under his breath, his knife rising to press against her throat again. She was forced to stop her thrashing lest she force him to slit her throat, and he ordered her again, “Shut up—just shut up!”

She had the brief, throwaway thought that she didn’t understand how he could possibly be surprised that she would fight, that he could be so visibly unnerved by the fact that she didn’t want to be killed. But before she could think or wonder or discern why if he wanted to kill her he hadn’t done it yet, the stranger hoisted her up and began his attempt at carrying her away from the bus stop.

With his hands busy lifting her—his arms had clasped around her waist so that she was half hoisted over his shoulder—she was better able to kick and hit and scream and holler and glance desperately around the quiet road. It wasn't that late, she didn’t think. Ten, maybe Eleven, but it was a quiet road, the only vehicle to drive through would generally be the bus and even that would be another eight minutes at least, and the pub where she had spent her evening was far enough away for her voice to fade before it reached the noisy storefront. 

She managed to twist herself out of his grip once, but when he dropped her she didn’t land on her feet. She landed hard on her side, and when she was able to get up he had already seized her around the waist again, angrily ordering her to stop fighting, stop screaming, stop—

He had put his knife away, she realized. She didn’t know why.

He hoisted her over his shoulder again, but this time further up, so that when she kicked her leg he was able to hold them still and she was unable to do anything except pound on his back. She realized a moment too late where he was taking her, when in the corner of her eye she saw a pair of headlights light up—a dark, small car parked on the side of the road—and to her dismay realized that it was because he had pressed a button on his keys and not because there was someone who could help her.

She saw something—someone—in the distance, and the dim streetlights picked up on a head of platinum blonde hair—

“Malfoy!” She called as loud as she could, her hands scrabbling at her assailant’s back to prop herself up to wave her arm high above her head. From her distance she couldn’t tell if he heard her, or if he saw her, and it was too dark to tell if he had tuned his head. The stranger’s shoulder jutted harshly into her stomach, but she sucked in another breath through gritted teeth and called—“Malfoy—!”

She was thrown into the boot of his car, and the back of her head collided with the side hard, hard enough to send her head spinning and her eyelids fluttering and for a moment she was too dizzy to lurch back out, to make closing the trunk impossible—

The boot was slammed shut, but she only had to withstand the darkness for a moment before her eyes fluttered shut.

When she lost consciousness, she didn’t really think she would wake up again.

—

It was two days until Tom would go to London.

He wasn’t entirely clear if Hermione had meant ‘a couple weeks’ as a general, indeterminate amount of time to get her thoughts straight, or exactly fourteen days, but considering what he was waiting on her to decide upon, he figured fourteen days was enough—no more. 

Twelve days and no calls, no texts, no visits. He stayed in his father’s manor and sorted out payments for the old man’s gardeners and housekeepers who came once or twice a week—because Tom certainly wasn’t going to be dealing with the upkeep of the house, and these people were in want of a job. And he waited, remembered what it felt like to lie in wait, took hold of the last strands of his patience and allowed her space before she came back.

She would, he knew. He hadn’t intended for her to ever know what happened to his father—though it was probably wishful thinking that she wouldn’t figure it out—because of the reaction he knew she would have. She always fancied herself a bit of a saint, it seemed, though she never had any trouble ignoring the fact that he was regularly violent and cruel to the children at the orphanage, and he regularly and violently threatened anyone who bothered her. It was only a matter of time before she realized this was one in the same.

And it wasn’t as if he planned on going on a killing spree. He didn’t plan for anyone else to die.

(It was just too messy and risky and a prison sentence did not fit in with his plans for the future)

Two days and he would go to London. Two days and he would have her back.

But late at night, one day and two nights before he would go to London, her number flashed across his phone screen.

But it wasn’t her.

“Riddle?” He heard someone’s voice speak, familiar though he wasn’t sure who—it didn’t sound like her friend Harry, certainly not any of her female friends as it was distinctly male—and Tom felt his brow furrow in both annoyance and worry before he responded.

“Who is this?”

“Shit—uh” The voice started, shaking terribly, and Tom felt dread settle into his chest, “—this is Draco Malfoy, and—shit—“

“Where is Hermione?” He asked lowly, keeping his voice calm.

“She—I don’t—I don’t know—“

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Tom snapped, rising to his feet and pacing the length of the room, “You have her phone—“

“There was—there was—fuck—he shoved her in a fucking trunk—“

There was a moment of confusion, before the panic set in. There was a moment of blissful silence in his mind that he didn’t even realize was blissful until it was gone, until his understanding of those words wrapped around his heart and squeezed, until the ringing in his ears sung almost louder than the sound of Malfoy’s babbling and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he felt freezing, he felt—

“Who?” He demanded, but it was so quietly spoken that Malfoy didn’t hear him at first

“I just—I didn’t know what was happening and she just kept screaming and then—then he just shoved her in and I—he was already—“

“Who?” He snapped, a loud and sudden rasp that tore through his throat in a way that was nearly painful

“I don’t—I didn’t see—it was dark—“

“Did you see anything?” He demanded, and as he spoke he tucked the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he pulled on his boots, “License plate? Did you see what he looked like? Did you see where he went—?”

“No, I—I didn’t see anything, I—it’s—it’s dark, I just—“

“Did you—“ Tom started, but Malfoy was still sputtering out excuses, “Shut up,” He ordered viciously, and Malfoy went quiet. Tom tore through the sitting room to grab his wallet, snap open his laptop and see if there was a night train or— “Did you see anything—anything useful? Or are you just calling to say you let him carter Hermione away in his trunk?” Once he was certain the trains were still running, he slammed his laptop shut with what was probably much more force than necessary. He stood again, intent on buying his ticket at the station, and started toward the door.

“I—I didn’t—I—I have her phone?” Malfoy replied uncertainly, and Tom had to physically pause in his movements in order to take hold of the strands of his rapidly thinning patience. He stopped by the opening that led to the front room, rested his hand on the chest of drawers there and tapped his fingers in an attempt to give the anxiety in his chest some sort of outlet.

“Yes,” He replied evenly, his tone not yet giving away the anger which bubbled up in his throat, “Her phone, which evidently is not with her, meaning we have one less way to find her—that’s what you offer me?”

“Uh—yes, I—“

“So what bloody good is that then?” He snapped, his hand slamming down on the chest of drawers hard enough that he was certain Malfoy would have heard it. 

“I called you didn’t I?” He spat back, “I’m doing something, aren’t I—?”

“Shut up,” Tom interrupted, “Just—“ He flexed his hand above the chest of drawers, the sting of his palm bringing back some much needed clarity to his rushing thoughts, “Call—“ He stopped himself, the options running through his mind. They could call the cops, enlist the help of the local authorities, but then they would be held back answering questions for hours, and when they did find whoever took her, Tom couldn’t imagine how he could bear giving up whoever that asshole was to the authorities without any chance at retribution.

But he couldn’t find her alone. And Malfoy was turning out to be absolutely useless, so—

“Call Bella,” He said, “She’s in London?”

“Yes—“

“Call Bella,” He repeated, storming out the front door, “I’ll be there in two hours just—tell her everything you know, meet me at Kings Cross in two hours and if you still have nothing I swear to God I will—“

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Malfoy replied, and Tom couldn’t bring himself to care that Malfoy sounded equally as panicked as he felt, “I don’t—I don’t know anything—“

“Call Bella,” He said for the third time through gritted teeth, “And figure it out,” 

He hung up the phone. When he reached the station and the ticket was in his hand, it did nothing to stop his heart from pounding in his chest. His mind was whirring and whirling and it wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t come up with a plan or think definitively without images of everything that could happen to her popping up in his mind. The issue with his previous dalliances in violence meant he was able to come up with some spectacular imagery—

The only way to calm himself was to think about everything he would do to whoever took her the moment he found them. The only way he could keep himself calm on his journey back to London was to picture them—whoever they were—at his mercy.

And who was it, he wondered? Was it someone she knew—someone he knew? Or someone new, some unknown psychopath who made a hobby out of abducting young girls off the street. He didn’t know what she had been up to the last two weeks, didn’t know if she had met someone new who could do this, or if someone had been acting suspicious—he didn’t know anything. If he had been there this never would have happened, if she could just stop running away all the bloody time she wouldn’t be in the trunk of some arsehole’s car—

Well, he thought, in a last ditch effort to keep his sanity so he wouldn’t lose it at the station waiting for that godforsaken train. They picked the wrong girl.

—

When Hermione woke, it was with a splitting headache and the desperate hope that everything had just been a very bad dream, and her headache was the result of a particularly awful hangover.

She didn’t get her wish.

When her eyes fluttered open, the first thing she realized was that her hands were bound behind her back, and her ankles bound as well. She nearly threw out her neck trying to peer over her shoulder to see the rope that bound her wrists together was wrapped around the leg of the couch, but pull as she might the giant leather sofa seemed immovable, too heavy for her to drag across the floor or to lift up to slide her wrists away. She tried to sit up, trying to ignore the way her head spun when she did, but the low angle where her wrists were pinned left her slumped against the side of the couch in what as decidedly uncomfortable.

She wanted to cry, wanted to scream and yell and beg for help, but all the screaming she had done so far had been useless. It had all happened to quick to do anything, to quick for anyone to come to her aid. She could only hope that Malfoy didn’t hate her enough to let her die at the hands of this man—

She didn’t even know who he was. She thought that if she was going to die by such horrible means she should at least know why it was her he chose.

Whoever he was, he was rich, or perhaps he had killed whoever lived here before. Looking around, the living room was huge, with grand and expensive looking furniture. When she peered over the couch she could see the large kitchen, and in front of her she saw the windows that peered out onto London. She might’ve been able to use those windows to gauge where she was, but a large, lush garden on the balcony blocked her sight. There was a door, near the kitchen, that she supposed led to the bedroom. She wondered if he was in there, waiting for her to wake.

She tried to be quiet, in case he was. Drawing her feet under her, she was able to bring her ankles near her wrists, and her fingers fumbled at the rope that tied around her ankles, her fingers burning as they scratched against the rope until she was able to undo the knot. She kicked the rope off, a shaky, panicked breath escaping her throat before she managed to control herself. If she could just get her arms out from behind her back, perhaps if she could—

She heard a muffled voice and froze. Panic welled in her chest before she could stop it, wondering if he was coming back, wondering what he would do, wondering what he wanted—why had he taken her? He had a knife to her throat, why not just kill her then? What did he want to do to her than he needed to—

A strangled sort of whimper escaped her, telling her now was not the best time to be thinking about any of that. For now he was gone—even if the sound of his voice implied he was not far gone—and she needed to do something, anything to get out of there.

She tried to push her bound hands underneath her, so she could slide her hands under her feet and have a bit more use of her hands in front of her, but her arms weren’t long enough to pull past her thighs, and that left her in a very uncomfortable and extremely unhelpful position on her side with her arms trapped under her legs, her wrists still pinned to the leg of the couch.

She righted herself, and tried to pull at the leg of the couch, try to get it to move even an inch, but the bloody thing remained still. None of the lights were on in the little flat, so it was difficult to see, but she thought she might've seen that the couch was bolted to the ground—or, not bolted, but definitely stuck—

“Rich fucking arseholes,” She whispered under her breathe, tears welling in her eyes again, “I suppose if they want a new couch they just get a whole new floor—“

She almost lost it, then, almost dissolved into tears. She had to stop herself, rest her head on her knees and collect her thoughts so that she didn’t fall apart. She needed to keep her mind with her, keep as calm as she could. She needed to figure out where she was, trust that Malfoy had told someone, anyone, and—

If she could reach Tom, somehow. If she could just—

If she had something sharp, she thought, her mind jumping from possibility to possibility. Something she could rub against the rope, then she could be free enough to—to sneak out? Or to…

It didn't matter, she just needed use of her arms. But looking around, there was very little to work with, nothing except for the couch an d a large, glass table that truly looked like more of a hazard than a piece of functional furniture. She fancied a chance at breaking the table for a shard but, not only was that impossible, it would also be much too loud. 

She heard a door open, and while she listened to the sound of footsteps crossing the living room she hurriedly kicked the rope under the legs of the couch and tucked her ankles underneath herself so he wouldn’t see. She prayed it was dark enough that he wouldn’t notice the rope underneath the couch.

“You’re awake.” She heard a voice call, and she lifted her eyes to see that the man from the bus stop was standing by the table now. He just stood there and stared at her in silence, almost as if he was waiting for her to respond, as if this was just a pleasant, normal conversation.

“What do you want?” She asked, her voice shaking no matter how she tried to keep it even, “What—What do you want with me?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at her as if somehow her very presence offended him, as if she had done something to him by just being there. He stared at her like this was her fault, like she was to blame for everything he was putting her through. She couldn’t bear his silence, couldn’t bear the way he just stood there calmly while her heart beat out of her chest. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he wanted, all she knew was he was crazy, he was out of his goddamn mind, and she didn’t know what to do or what to say.

He had a phone in one hand, she noted. And a gun in the other.

The only coherent thought that ran through her head was that she was going to die, and it reverberated through her mind over and over and over again, a horrible echo that chilled her to her very bones. She was shaking, shaking so much no matter how hard she tried to stop, and those dreadful tears started to build behind her eyes again. She tried to open her mouth, to say anything, to plead that he put it away, that he not hurt her, to bargain with him or death or anyone, but no sound came out of her mouth. Terror seized her lungs and left her mute, sh couldn’t breathe or speak or think except for that sour thought—I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die—

His phone lit up, and she heard the vibrations in the quiet room. He swore under his breath, but she noted it sounded more like one of relief than annoyance. “Finally,” He spoke into the phone as he walked quickly away from her, “I’ve been calling you for a bloody hour—“

He was out of her sight, and she out of his. She turned her eyes to the window where the moonlight played upon the garden, and desperately, desperately tried to stop herself from falling apart, keeping her lip clamped between her teeth so that she didn’t start sobbing.

“No, I haven’t yet—“ She heard before the door slammed and she heard nothing but muffles.

She had never seen a gun before. She wondered how long it would be before it was pointed at her.

She bit her lip so hard that it bled but she cried anyway.

—

Draco Malfoy had thought his life was stressful enough before the moment he saw Hermione Granger being catered away in some bloke’s trunk, thank you very much.

He had his own family to deal with, first of all, who—while they obviously loved him—certainly did nothing to make his life any easier. And he had classes, and he hadn’t even wanted to be at that shabby little pub where Granger and her friends were, he just sort of ended up there because Pansy had a thing for the bartender—who was thirty-bloody-five but okay—and then of course he has to be the one to bear witness to Granger’s fucking soap opera of a life.

And yes, alright, he hated Granger, he hated her ever since they were kids and she pranced around like she was the bloody queen and wouldn’t even talk to him, or even play a bloody game of tag every once and a while, but it wasn’t like he wanted her dead.

Riddle seemed to think Malfoy had it in him to actually wish death upon the girl, however, because he had sent him three quite explicit, horrifying text messages—to Hermione’s phone, but obviously for Malfoy to see—about what he would do to him if he found out he wasn’t saying everything he knew. The problem was Draco truly knew nothing.

So he called Bella, because Riddle had told him to, and because Bella had been in enough ridiculously dramatic situations in her life that she would have to know what to do, right? 

She was uncharacteristically quiet when he explained it, which was odd because he hadn’t even known that she knew Granger, he just knew that she was involved with Riddle—which brought her character into question enough, because Tom Riddle was a bloody psycho and no one seemed to comprehend this except him—so the fact that she could be even somewhat altered by Granger being kidnapped was odd. And somewhat enlightening. If Granger was so prone to attracting sociopaths he wondered what that said about her other friends, namely her perfect Best Friend Potter.

(Who had called about twenty times now, chill the fuck out, Potter)

He wondered where he was, actually, because he knew that they had been together at the pub—he saw them—so he wondered how it was that Granger wound up at a bus stop on her own at night.

At any rate, he found himself somehow involved, with the girl he had sometimes drunkenly referred to as his nemesis’s phone in his hand, waiting at King’s Cross station with Bella’s car keys in his hand so that he could drive Tom bloody Riddle back to Bella’s flat in order to hunt down their pea-sized girlfriend and—bloody hell he didn’t want to think about what they would do to the bloke that took her—

Riddle was violent, Malfoy had experienced it himself. And Bella…His mother had always referred to her dear sister as ‘an enabler,’ and Draco was fairly certain that just meant that Bella had a way of making people do horrible things while not quite having any amount of guilt herself, so he didn’t want to think about what the pair of them were capable of doing to another human being.

This whole thing was bullshit, he didn’t need to be worrying about some stuck-up, bushy-haired bitch who he didn’t even particularly like when he should be out drinking with his friends, having fun, and being normal.

Next train was due to arrive in five minutes. He was fairly certain that was the train Riddle was on. 

Two hours and Bella hadn’t found much. She got some help from that officer who was in love with her, hacked into security cameras but none were near the bus stop Hermione was taken from—therefore no plate number, no face. He wasn’t sure if Bella found much of anything, in fact, but there was something decidedly dark in her expression when she had thrown him the keys to the car that she never let him drive and told him to hurry back. 

He needed to piss.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, except for the phone which remained out because Granger’s stupid rubber phone case kept catching at the lining of his pockets and it was bloody annoying—who has rubber phone cases?—and started toward the toilet. He just hoped it wasn’t one of those stupid toilets where you have to pay fifty-pence to get in because god-knows he doesn’t have any change—

He slammed into someone—which should have been impossible, because it wasn’t as if the station was terribly crowded, but he was stressed—and as if his night couldn’t get any worse—

“Potter?” He sneered, and Harry glanced up from his phone in surprise, as if he hadn’t even completely realized he had knocked into anyone. “Are you bloody blind?”

“Malfoy?” He balked for a moment, “Malfoy—have you—?” He stopped himself, furrowing his brow as if he already regretted the question he didn’t even finish asking, and shook his head, “Never mind, sod off,” He muttered, pushing past Malfoy.

Draco would have let the situation roll of his back—every interaction he had ever had with Potter had been like this or worse, sometimes complete with physical threats from the older boy if things ever got out of hand. But his phone—or, more accurately, Granger’s phone—went off at his side and he saw another text from Tom Riddle. This time threat-free, simply stating he had arrived. 

Potter had stopped beside him.

“Why do you have that?” He asked quietly. Malfoy didn’t really have an answer so he just started walking away. That proved the wrong decision, however, when Potter gripped the back of his shirt and pulled him back, turning him around to face him. Malfoy, angered at being manhandled, gripped at his wrists and tried to pull his hands off.

“Get your hands off of—“

“Where did you get that phone?” Potter demanded, his green eyes looking colder than Malfoy had even seen them.

“At the—the bus stop!” He sputtered, finally managing to tear Harry’s hands off of his shirt when a shocked expression fell over the dark-haired boys face. 

“Bus stop?” He echoed quietly, “The—it was just there?” 

Jesus, he looked like he was going to cry, fuck.

“Yeah,” He spat, straightening his shirt and just wishing he would go away, “I found it.”

“Give it to me.” Harry demanded.

“No.” Malfoy refused.

“No?” Potter echoed, because while his earlier demand had been exactly that—a demand—it had been spoken politely. He narrowed his eyes, and Draco noticed a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“I—I can’t do that.”

“What do you mean you can’t—that’s not yours.” He spat.

“Well, it’s not yours either—“

“Give me the blimmin’ phone, Malfoy—“ 

“No—“ Harry grabbed the phone, tried to tear it out of Malfoy’s grip but Draco was pretty certain if he didn’t have that phone Riddle would skin him alive, so he held tight. Harry lifted a hand curled into a fist and readied himself to strike and Malfoy was only just able to lift his free hand to shield his face—

Potter was ripped away, and the phone went clattering to the ground. 

“Stop it—Calm down—“ Riddle spoke lowly as Harry jerked away.

“Riddle?” He breathed, “He—He has Hermione’s phone—“

“I know.” He interrupted, glancing down at the phone on the ground. He quickly bent down to retrieve it, meeting Malfoy’s eyes as he straightened, “If this broke, I would have killed you.”

“Why are you acting like this is all my bloody fault?”

“What the hell is going on?” Harry demanded angrily.

“Your stupid friend was kidnapped, that’s what!” Malfoy snapped, “And I just want to go home—“

Riddle’s hand seized Malfoy’s shoulder, his fingers dangerously close to his throat, and he spoke lowly while casting glances around them, “Shut up,” He ordered, “You’re causing a scene, and you aren’t going anywhere. Did you call Bella?”

“Yes,” Draco seethed, “She’s at her flat. I brought her car.”

“We’re going.” Riddle ordered.

“I’m going with you,” Potter demanded.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—I am not spending the night with Saint Potter of all people—“

“You,” Riddle hissed, his hand tightening its grip and his eyes boring into Draco’s, “Have no say.” He turned calmly back to Harry, “You should go home.” He told him, but it truly sounded like a suggestion rather than an order, for once.

“I’m not going home.” Harry said sternly, “Did you call the police? Do you know who took her?” 

There was a moment between the two of them, Harry looking both terrified and vindicated, tapping his fingers against his leg in agitated silence. Riddle decided something in that moment, something that Malfoy wasn’t sure what to think of, and Tom said, “I’ll explain on the way. No cops.”

Malfoy had to listen to Potter’s horrible voice complain about calling the police the entire ride to Bella’s.

—

Hermione had started to drag the rope tying her to the leg of the couch back and forth in hopes that it would wear away, but so far it seemed useless. The muffled voice had long since quieted, but he still hadn’t re-entered the living room, so she kept her legs stretched in front of her to keep them from cramping up underneath her.

She didn’t even know how long it had been. Every moment felt like forever, and she was simultaneously grateful for that moment, grateful for a chance to survive, but she also felt like she was losing her mind. What did he want? Who was he talking to? Was he going to kill her?

She heard a door open, so she quickly tucked her feet underneath her and waited. When he passed the table and was in her sights again, she didn’t see his gun. He stood there in silence for some time, and in the end, Hermione was the first to speak.

“Are you going to kill me?” She asked quietly. The room was so silent that even though her voice was barely above a whisper, it filled the whole room. It was the most pressing question on her mind, the only thing she could think to ask while he just stood there and stared at her. He sighed, running his fingers through his hair and staring at the ground instead of at her. She didn’t know what that reaction meant until she heard him swear underneath his breath.

“You don’t have to do it,” She told him quietly, her voice shaking, “You can let me go. I won’t tell anyone—“

“You’ll tell your bloody boyfriend is what you’ll do.” He muttered, and Hermione jolted at the mention. 

“You—know Tom?” She asked quietly, carefully, “Is that—is that why…?” She almost asked if that was why he wanted to kill her, but the question refused to fall from her lips. “Did he…do something to you?” He rolled his eyes, the flippancy did nothing to soothe her nerves. Her breath hitched before she uttered, “I don’t understand,” and she noticed the way his shoulders tensed, “I didn’t do anything—“

“Shut up,” He cut her off, “Alright? Just stop talking.”

“I don’t know what Tom did,” She said, emboldened by his tone, thinking she might be convincing him, “But it has nothing to do with me—killing me won’t solve anything—“

“Shut up.” He seethed. 

“If you just let me go—“

“I said shut up, alright?” He snapped, his voice so loud it made her ears ring, and she found herself staring down the barrel of his gun. She didn’t know he had it on him, she thought perhaps he had left it in whatever room he had been making those calls. She couldn’t breathe, choking on fear as she stared wide eyed at the weapon, unable to tear her eyes away. Her mouth snapped shut, and she did as he said and remained silent. 

She couldn’t figure out what was going on. He obviously knew Tom—he had brought him up, even if he hadn’t said his name, the way he had made his observation that she would tell her boyfriend said enough—but she didn’t recognize him. She hadn’t seen any pictures of him with Tom, she didn’t recognize his face. Was she right about Tom having done something to him? Is that why this man came after her?

But what good would that do, she wondered? If Tom had done something to him, surely he realized the type of person Tom was—that he wouldn’t take whatever was happening lying down. Was she being used as revenge for something? Was he going to kill her to get at Tom? Why wait, then? Why kidnap her instead of slitting her throat at the bus stop? Surely he didn’t want Tom to know he did it?

And who was on the phone? Some small part of her hoped it was someone who was telling him to stop—maybe it was Tom, maybe he was trying to use her to threaten him and—as much as she hated that thought, she wanted so badly for Tom to know where she was. If he knew where she was he could help, he could get to her, he was smart enough to get to her if they really were using her to threaten him or blackmail him or—

She watched the expression on this stranger’s face. He didn’t look like the type of man to shoot a young girl point blank for no reason, but she had long since learned not to judge a man by his appearance. He looked angry, he looked furious, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenched and his gun poised in her face. He looked like he could pull the trigger if he wanted to. 

But his hand was shaking. Was it shaking? And she hoped that was because he didn’t want to shoot her, and not because he was holding himself back.

His phone rang, the vibration in his pocket interrupting the tense silence. He lowered the gun and she let out a long shaky breath that almost turned into a sob. He pulled keys out of his pocket to unlock the sliding glass door that led to the garden, slamming the door shut behind him as he went out and leaned against the side of the garden that overlooked the city. Hermione watched him slide the gun into the waistband of his pants at his back. 

She felt like she was losing her mind. People didn’t get threatened at gunpoint in London—that just didn’t happen, did it? At least not to her. The closest she had ever come to violence was only ever around Tom, and the violence was always inflicted n someone else. She couldn’t even bring herself to be angry that this whole situation—as it seemed so far—might be because of Tom. She didn’t care, she wasn’t mad, she was just terrified and she wanted to go home, she wanted Tom—

She tried to listen to the conversation. But she could only hear his muffled voice. 

He turned, suddenly, to meet her eyes. She had to bite her tongue to distract herself from bursting into tears as he opened the sliding door and slammed it shut behind him. It bounced off the doorframe and opened a few inches again, but he left it like that as he stormed across the living room—“I am telling you to get here, now—“ She heard him say, before he cut himself off and she just barely heard the sound of some man’s voice on the line. She tried to listen, to hear if it was Tom’s, but before she could make sense of the quiet noise from his phone she heard a door slam shut and he was back in his room.

She slammed the back of her head against the couch, squeezing her eyes shut, the tears that had built up in her eyes streaming down her cheeks. But when she shut her eyes she just saw that gun in her face—he could have pulled the trigger, she knew, all because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. He could have killed her. He could have—

She opened her eyes, her breath coming in quick, panicked breaths as she tried to calm down. 

He left his key in the door. 

She pushed herself up on her knees—as much as she could while her wrists were bound to the leg of the couch—to peer over the couch behind her. The door was shut, and she could still hear his muffled voice on the phone. Turning back to the sliding glass door, she stretched herself out across the floor, stretching out her foot to try and press it against the glass door and pull it open toward her. Her shoe didn’t have enough traction, so with a quiet square, she pulled herself back up to a sitting position, glancing over the couch again before tucking her foot under her and pulling off her sneaker and her sock. Another paranoid glance over the side of the couch, and she stretched herself out across the floor, the ball of her foot just barely reaching the glass of the door. She pressed her bare foot against the glass, pulling it to the side. It shifted a bit, but the door was heavy, and she had the strain the muscle of her leg in order to pull it to the side, using her other foot to try and assist. Slowly, she puled the glass door open so that the keys were closer to her. 

She pulled herself up just to glance behind her, before stretching out and trying to reach the keys with her foot. She had to push herself forward, allow her arms to stretch at an uncomfortable angle behind her, and tried to catch the ring of keys with her toe and pull it out. Her thigh was aching as she kept it stretched out, but her toes didn’t have the same dexterity her fingers had, and the keys kept slipping—

She got it out of the lock, and it fell to the floor with a loud clang.

“Shit,” She uttered, her heart leaping out of her throat. She kicked the keys closer to her, and hurriedly tried to push the door shut like it was before. It was easier to shut than ti was to open, hooking her foot around the side of the glass door and pushing it. She scrambled back up, dragging the keys with her foot as she shoved her shoe and sock under the couch and tucked her legs underneath her again, pulling the keys with her foot so that she could reach them with her hands.

Once they were in her hands, she managed to hook one of the keys under the rope, and used the jagged edge to try and saw away at the bindings.

His voice had raised in the other room. Words were still unintelligible but she thanked whatever god there might be that he hadn’t heard the keys hit the floor.

—

“There’s no cameras around where she was taken,” Bella said in leu of a greeting when the three men arrived, “Draco didn’t see a face, the car was pretty nondescript, so I wasn’t able to check cameras nearby to find him—whoever he was—“ 

“How are you seeing security camera footage?” Tom asked as he strode in.

“A cop who’s in love with me or something.” When Tom sent her a particularly stern glance, she added, “Relax, he’s a dirty cop, he won’t report anything if we don’t want him to. My father does business with him all the time.”

“Dirty cop?” Harry echoed from the doorway, “Why not an actual cop—“

“Did you find anything?” He asked. 

“No proof of anything,” Bella said, “But I have an opinion, if you’d like to hear it.”

“How are the two of you so calm?” Harry demanded, “You realized she was kidnapped, don’t you? She could be dead?”

“Quiet.” Tom ordered sharply, before turning back to Bella and approaching her, peering over her shoulder at her laptop to see what she had, “Tell me your opinion.”

She turned in her seat to meet his eyes. “Rodolphus.”

There was a brief hesitation before Tom echoed, “Lestrange.” His mind turned over the idea—but he had assumed Lestrange had been dealt with. Lately every time he was around Lestrange the man practically shook with fear, he did everything he said, he hardly ever spoke back. But when he thought, when he tried to remember how he had acted when Hermione was present, he found that his memory of the situation was somewhat muddled. He hadn’t been paying much attention to Lestrange in general—why would he, when Hermione was there? “Why?” He demanded.

“Rodolphus Lestrange?” Potter echoed at the side, “Isn’t he your friend—“

“Quiet,” Tom ordered again, much angrier this time, “Stop talking,” He turns back to Bella, “Why Lestrange?”

“He doesn’t particularly like you,” She told him, “And I thought he was being odd about Hermione when we left Little Hangleton—“

“Odd how?” He demanded, “Did you know he was going to—“

“I didn’t know anything,” Bella snapped, purposely turning back to her Laptop and away from Tom when his eyes narrowed, “I still don’t know—I told you this is an opinion—“

“Odd how?” He pressed, his arms caging her in around the desk she was sat at, looking at the screen of her laptop. 

“He just kept making comments about yours and Hermione’s relationship—I thought it was out of jealousy—in any case,” She cut herself off, signing into the cloud online—it took a moment for Tom to realize she was signing into Lestrange’s account. She brought up his phone’s location. “He’s in France. He’s not even in London.”

“His brother,” Tom said evenly, “Where is he?”

“Rabastan?” Bella asked, turning to face him with her expression scrunched in confusion, “He’s harmless—he’s a sheep—“

“He does everything his brother asks,” He said, “Doesn’t he?”

Bella paused. “I can’t imagine him kidnapping a girl,” She admitted after a moment, “He does what his brother says, but…you know he also cried when the family dog died last year?”

“He also jumped me a few months back under his brother’s orders.”

“Yes but a street fight is quite a bit different than kidnapping a young girl—“

“Can you get Lestrange’s call history?” He interrupted, uninterested in whatever Bella was about to say. He didn’t know Rabastan—certainly didn’t know him as well as Bella seemed to, and of course she would, she had been involved with theLestrange family for years—but he knew that he had shown a willingness to do whatever Lestrange said. And if Bella was right, if this had been Lestrange’s order—he didn’t care to think of what Lestrange would be willing to do to Hermione to get at him.

“Not on here,” Bella said, gesturing to the screen, “I can call that cop.”

“Do it.” He ordered. Standing up straight again as Bella picked up her cell phone and dialed the number of whatever cop she had in her favor. Tom ran a hand through his hair and tried to regain control of his thoughts, which were already running away with themselves and providing images he didn’t need to see.

“If it is this bloke, if we know it’s him, why can’t we just call the cops and—“ Potter started. Tom didn’t even bother looking at him when he replied.

“If we drop the name ‘Lestrange’ as a suspect the police will drop the case as soon as they can,” He told him, “No cop in his right mind wants to deal with the legal backlash if he goes after a Lestrange.”

“That’s not true.” Harry denied, “They would help, they would—“

When Tom met Harry’s eyes this time, it was with the intent to intimidate him into silence. He had never particularly hated Harry Potter—he had been a friend of Hermione’s before Tom ever met her, and one of her less annoying friends in fact—but at the moment every time he begged to call the cops sent Tom that bit closer to punching him in the face just to shut up him. “No police.” He said lowly, a threat implicit in his tone. Potter paused, eyed him closely as if shocked by his tone, and Tom supposed he might be. He had never had any reason to threaten Potter before, and for most of his life had in fact been rather pleasant to him. 

“If it’s him,” Harry said, “She’s in a real trouble, isn’t she?”

Tom took a deep, calming breath to combat the tightness of his chest and his eyes fell to the ground. He didn’t answer.

“Shit,” Harry muttered, his voice thick, “Damn it—I knew I shouldn’t have left her there, I just—“

Tom’s eyes jumped up to watch Harry’s expression, and for a moment, he couldn’t move. “What?” He asked, watching Harry ruffle his hair, his eyes welling with tears.

“At the bus stop,” Harry elaborated, “I knew I shouldn’t—it was so late, I just—She only lives 20 minutes away, I thought—“

“You left her there?” He asked quietly. Harry nodded, biting his lip as his mouth twisted into a grimace. 

“It’s my fault,” He said, “I should have—I should have known—“

“You left her there alone?” Tom seethed, but this time before Harry could say anything his hands lifted to seize the younger boy by the throat and started pushing him back toward the wall behind him. Bella turned around in her chair at Harry’s sudden startled yell, but Tom hardly even heard whatever she said. “You’re the reason she was alone?”

Harry managed to whip Tom’s arms away from him, “I know,” He said, his voice shaking but his eyes flashing with anger, “That was my fault. But I heard what she said,” She gestured to Bella who was watching them warily from where she sat, “Your fucking friend is the reason she was in danger in the first place—“

Tom punched him in the face, to which Harry quickly retaliated by tackling Tom to the ground.

“Stop it,” Tom dimly heard Bella call as he rolled over to pin Harry to the ground, “Stop! Draco!” He landed another punch before Harry’s knee jerked up into his stomach and the boy rolled him back over, pinning him down with a hand at his chest and before Tom could throw him off he landed a blow to his cheek.

He was pulled off, and Tom watched as Harry turned on instinct to punch Malfoy in the eye. The pale boy yelped, “What the fuck, Potter, you arsehole—“ as Tom ran a hand through his hair for the thousandth time and tried to regain control over his temper. He felt Bella’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Obviously this doesn’t help Hermione—“ She spat.

“Did you get the phone records?”

“I had to hang up to deal with you—“

“Call him back.” He snapped, fixing her with a vicious glare. He was marginally surprised, though he didn’t show it, when she glared back for a moment before turning and picking her phone back up from the desk, turning and leaning against it as she held the phone to her ear. It wasn’t often he saw Bella serious about anything, but he noted she was decidedly lacking in sarcastic quips today. 

Harry had moved to the other end of the room, his arms crossed and his teeth grinding as he stared determinedly at the floor. Malfoy leaned against the wall near him, his hand over the eye Harry had hit.

Tom flexed his aching fingers and tried to focus on finding Hermione alive, instead of picturing her dead.

—

Hermione hadn’t realized how certain she was that she was going to die until she managed to cut through that rope, and she felt for the first time all night the hope that she might be able to get out, to get away. She pulled her hands in front of her and rubbed at her wrists. The room behind her was silent, but he hadn’t reemerged for some time now. She peered over the edge of the couch, glanced around the room to see that the door at the other end of the room near the kitchen was the only door out of the room. She didn’t know what it led to—for all she knew he could be directly on the other side. But looking around she could see no other alternative.

It opened, and she just barely managed to sit back down with her back against the couch, feigning her wrists tied behind her when he crossed the length of the room. 

He paused at the glass door, and she realized with a certain amount of despair that he had only reentered the room to retrieve the keys he head left in the door, if the way he was staring at the place they used to be said anything. She had figured he had forgotten about them, that he wouldn’t need them. He turned to face her and she couldn’t breathe

“Where are the keys?” He asked.

“What?” She balked.

“The keys?” He said, “I left them here.”

She shrugged her shoulders, trying to appear like she was genuinely confused even though she knew the keys were on the floor under the couch behind her. “I don’t know what you did with them,” She breathed, “What could I have done? I’m tied up.” He paused, watching her silently for a moment. Then he started toward her, and Hermione felt panic well up in her throat again, “No,” She said, shaking her head, “No, stay away from me—“

He was so close, and his closeness brought a whole new sort of terror. His hand wrapped around her leg and he pulled, exposing her untied ankles, and when she fell back her hands spread out behind her on instinct to stop from falling over. His face screwed up in a horrible sort of anger.

“What the hell?” He muttered, reaching under the couch beside her to retrieve the rope and then the keys. Hermione was so terrified she could hardly move. He looked up from the rope to glower at her.

“No,” She muttered when he moved toward her, the rope brandished in his hands—she wouldn’t be tied up again, she wouldn’t just sit here and wait to die—“No, get away, stop—“

He grabbed at her arm, pulling it around her back, and he was so close, so close she could smell him—some expensive cologne—and she could just barely see the gun in his waistband at his back. His grip on her wrist hurt, and he grabbed her other wrist to pull it behind her back and she felt the rope against her wrists.

She jerked her knee up, missed her target but still drove it harshly into his stomach. He grunted, and his grip on her wrist loosened just enough for her to pull her hand away and reach around his back, grabbing the gun and pulling it out of his waistband. He let go of her wrists once he was aware what she had taken, and tried to grab at the gun himself. She wedged her leg between them and kicked him away, her hands scrambling at the floor behind her and the gun scraping across the floor as she tried to scramble up, but he dove for her again. She didn’t know what she planned to do—she had never fired a gun in her life—but she just knew that as long as she had the gun, he didn’t.

It didn’t stay in her possession for long. His hand snatched the gun from the ground, she felt the metal slide out from under her fingers, and his other hand shoved her hard by the middle of her chest so that she was sprawled across the ground. When she sat back up, the gun was pointed in her face again, and she held her hands up, palms forward in from of her in a form of surrender, too afraid to move lest he shoot her.

“Christ!” He snarled, one hand massaging his stomach. She didn’t realize she had kicked him that hard, and the way he was glaring at her now while his hand needed his abdomen made her heart beat so loudly in her ears she could hardly hear her harsh, uneven breaths. She could see her hands shaking, but his gun was steady now.

Her mouth twisted into a grimace, and she lowered her head and stared at her legs because she really felt like she was about to cry and she didn’t want him to see. She didn’t know what to do. If she ran, he would catch her, and probably shoot her. If she sat here he would either tie her up again or just shoot her and be done with it. A sob escaped her before she clamped her lower lip between her teeth to stop herself from breaking down. 

His phone rang again. Her eyes shut in what she wasn’t sure was relief or dread. She waited for him to storm out of the room to take his phone call, but she heard him speak into the phone, “Are you in London yet?” And her eyes snapped up to see he still had the gun pointed at her as he spoke into the phone. 

She couldn't stop shaking, and she slowly lowered her hands so she could clench her fists in the fabric of her shirt. He wasn’t watching her while he spoke, his eyes focused blankly to the side, but the presence of the gun kept her still regardless. 

“What do you mean not yet, when?” 

Hermione tried to listen to the voice she heard from the phone, tried to discern if she recognized it. Part of her still hoped it was Tom, that they were calling him to threaten him or something, because at least that meant that she had the chance to survive, that they would keep her alive until he could come get her. But the tone of voice this man used did not sound like someone who was threatening someone else—it rather sounded like someone who was being threatened.

“But she’s—I can’t—“ He stopped, and she heard the murmur of the voice on the phone, “I know that, but you didn’t tell me she was—“ He stopped again. 

He didn’t want to, Hermione realized. Whatever he was planning to do—kill her, hurt her, keep her there for god knows how long—he didn’t want to do it. Whoever was on that phone, they wanted him to do it, but he didn’t. 

His eyes met hers and she tried to put every terrified emotion she felt into the silence between them. His jaw clenched. 

“Just—get here.” He said, “And I—“ He nodded, quick, jerky motions as he listened to the voice, Hermione wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or if she really heard the voice say ‘kill her’ somewhere in whatever they were saying, “Okay.” He said, “Okay.” 

He hung up. 

Hermione leaned forward as slowly as she could, so as not to prompt him to shoot. He wasn’t looking at her now as he pocketed his phone. “You don’t have to do it.” She said quietly. His eyes met hers and he jerked his gun, and her hands flew up in that sign of surrender again. “Whatever he’s telling you to do, you don’t have to do it.” She repeated.

He didn’t answer. She moved forward so slowly she wasn’t even entirely convinced she was moving, “You don’t want to,” She said with a shaky breath, “I can tell. You don’t want to do it. Because you know it’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong is your boyfriend,” He said, “He goes around like he owns everyone.”

“What he does is wrong too,” She said quickly, nodding quickly with wide eyes, “I know that. But I haven’t done anything wrong.” He was glaring at her while she spoke, and she continued to slowly, slowly approach him. Her voice broke on the last word, and she noticed the way his jaw twitched when she did. “Please,” She said, “Please, I’m scared.”

“Stop it.” He said, “I’m not—I’m not going to kill you—“

“Is he?” She asked, glancing at his phone in his pocket. “Is he going to when he gets here?”

The man was quiet.

“Please,” She begged again, “You don’t have to do this.” She shifted closer still, “You can just let me go.” His hand was shaking now, she noted, the hand that held the gun. She counted that as a victory, and continued slowly approaching him, allowed her emotion to take control of her voice, “Whoever is telling you to do this—I can help you—Tom will help you too if you just help me.”

She was within a foot of him now, and he just watched her with this strange expression on his face. She thought for a moment that there was a chance he would listen, she thought there was a chance he would let her go. She could see that he didn’t want to do it, that he couldn’t—

But he still held that gun out as if he was still trying to work up the nerve. She was going to die there, she realized, if it was up to him.

She grabbed the gun. The shot that rang through the room was deafening, and she screamed.

—

Harry had eventually moved to Bella’s bedroom—with her permission—as Tom and Bella tried to track down Rodolphus Lestrange’s brother. More than anything Harry just wanted to call the cops, just to have some feeling of control over the situation, but he didn’t. He could call his dad, he knew, tell him what was happening and his dad would get everyone he knew on the force to help him hunt down that arsehole, but…

He knew what they meant, when they said that the cops would run when they heard Lestrange’s name. Harry had often heard his dad and his godfather go on about the way officers worked around cases, all the dirty cops they found out—their best friend Peter had turned out to be one, in fact, and Harry wasn’t sure he had ever seen his father look so devastated. But experiencing it now, in person, knowing that Hermione was out there and they couldn’t enlist the help they needed without likely alerting that arsehole that they knew he had her—he felt like he was slowly losing his mind.

How could his father stand it, he wondered? And how would Harry stand it, when he followed him into that profession? Him and Ron were set to start the academy soon, after all.

He wasn’t fit to be a cop, he thought. Cops were supposed to protect people, not leave friends at the bus stop by themselves late at night. He should have made her go with them, told her to help him get Ron and Lavender home so that he could walk her home afterward. He should have never let her stay there—what was he thinking? Leaving her there on that silent street at night when she had been drinking and—

He had never been good at protecting her, he realized. From the day he first met her in primary, he had done a shitty job at protecting her. But from the first moment he met her—when she was reading on the playground and she lectured him for the entirety of recess because he told her he didn’t like to read books like she was reading, because they were boring—she had never seemed like the person who needed to be protected. And in fact, when she had met Tom, Harry had never really seen Tom as protecting her so much as he saw Hermione protecting him.

He was the creepy orphan boy after all, until Hermione got a hold of him. Since Hermione befriended him, Harry wasn’t sure he ever looked at him as the scary, weird kid.

Well, until tonight. But he supposed everyone had a reason to be out of sorts tonight.

“Hey, uh—“ He heard, and he glanced up to see Malfoy at the door. He had a black eye, now, and Harry felt only slightly guilty about that. Malfoy might not have deserved to get hit at the time—he was only trying to break up the fight—but he was always a right git, so he probably would have deserved it at some point. Harry still found it odd that Malfoy hung around at all, but then Tom seemed intent to keep Malfoy around on the off chance that something happened to Hermione and he needed to make someone pay. He had the feeling his wrath would be on both of them, now. “They found the phone records—apparently he’s been calling his brother a lot, so, they’re trying to track Rab’s phone or something—“

“Rab?” Harry echoed.

“Uh—Rabastan.” He clarified. “The brother.”

“Right.” Harry said, eyeing him, “But ‘Rab?’”

“Habit.” Malfoy shrugged, “My family is pretty…close to the Lestranges.”

Harry scoffed. “Of course they are.” 

There was a moment of awkward silence. Harry was sat upon the bed, his elbows on his knees as he writhed his hands, trying not to dwell too much on the fact that this was all his fault. He wasn’t exactly keen on breaking down into tears in front of a bunch of people he either hated or didn’t know.

“Are you going to just sulk in here then?” Malfoy asked a bit nastily. Harry glared. “It’s a bit weird, hanging out in my aunt’s bedroom.”

“What are you doing here?” Harry spat, “You don’t even like Hermione.”

“Doesn’t mean I want her dead,” He defended sharply, “Besides, I’m sure you’ve noticed Riddle isn’t letting me leave. He seems to think this is all my bloody fault.” 

“It’s not.” Harry said sullenly, “It’s mine.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“Well, she’s probably not going to die,” Malfoy said a bit flippantly, and Harry glowered up at him as he spoke, “I mean Bella usually gets what she wants, and Tom is terrifying,” He shrugged, “And you’re going to be a cop, or something.”

“How do you know I’m gonna be a cop?” Harry asked.

“Sorry, was it a secret?” Malfoy snarked with a raised eyebrow. 

“You’re a real arsehole, you know that?” Harry snapped.

“I’m trying to be friendly.” Malfoy snapped back, throwing his hands in the air. 

“Well you’re pretty shit at it.” Harry spat. He met Malfoy’s glare with one of his own in the silence that followed. Harry couldn’t figure out what Malfoy wanted, why he was talking to him at all. He hadn’t ever really interacted with Malfoy much at all—they weren’t in the same year, after all, so the only interaction he had was because Malfoy had always terrorized Hermione—and the limited interactions he had with Malfoy were anything but pleasant. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Malfoy now, of all people, while waiting on the news that one of his best friends was dead.

“I don’t wanna be a cop.” He muttered. He wasn’t sure why he said it. The truth was it came tumbling out before he could stop it. Malfoy didn’t respond right away.

“Yeah,” He agreed after some time, and Harry was a bit offended that he just agreed with him, “You’re more the professor type.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Harry asked. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“Relax,” He drawled, “It’s a compliment. I’m being nice.”

“Well, stop doing that.” Harry grumbled, “It doesn’t suit you.”

Malfoy surprised him when he smirked, as if the comment amused him. The sight was odd, because Harry was certain he would have never had any pleasant interactions with Malfoy in his life. This wasn’t pleasant but any means, but it wasn’t filled with the usual animosity of their conversations. 

He stuck by his opinion that nice wasn’t a good look for him, though. That smirk was anything but nice. 

In the other room a phone rang, and Harry shifted his gaze to peer through the doorway to see Tom glance down at his phone. He watched him hold out his hand to signal Bella, and Harry found himself at his feet and hurrying into the room before he had time to think. 

Tom answered the call.

—

The bullet didn’t hit her, and it didn’t hit him. The gun shot somewhere over her shoulder, the volume being the most startling thing about it, and her scream seemed to startle the both of them. Hermione took the opportunity to throw the gun out of his hand. She had meant to grab it, in all honestly, but her movement had been to jerky and the gun ended up out of his hand and skidding across the floor. She dove for it, but the man’s hand wrapped around her ankle and pulled her back. The side of her face collided hard with the ground as he dragged her back, and she knew that if he could get a hold of her wrists behind her back he would tie her up again, so she flopped over on her back. She tried to kick his hand away, but when he did let her go it was only to seize her by the arms and hold her still.

The next few moments went by so fast she could hardly make sense of anything that was happening. She thrashed in his hold, and he kept ordering things of her—stay still, stop screaming, stop struggling, be quiet—and she just kept thinking that if she didn’t get away form him, she would die. She just kept thinking that if she could just get to that gun, she could keep him away from her so that she could run away. She just needed to get him off of her long enough to get that gun and she could leave—

She broke her arm free about the same time she wedged her knee between them. She pushed him back with her knee as hard as she could in the center of his chest. And with her free arm she curled her hand into a fist and punched him as hard as she could in the face, before kicking out with her legs.

It was enough to throw him back—likely because he hadn’t been expecting it—and Hermione half-crawled over to where the gun was, clutching it in her hands and throwing herself to her feet. She whirled around and held the gun up in her shaking hands.

He didn’t move. 

When she had kicked him back, she hadn’t realized that he had lost his balance and fallen backwards. He was sprawled across the ground beside the glass table, still and silent, but his eyes were wide open, and on the corner of the table she thought she saw a stain, it was difficult to tell in the dark but she swore she saw—

She dropped the gun.

“Oh god,” She gasped, her shaking fingers covering her mouth.Slowly she approached him, and she saw something blooming out from under him, something dark, that slowly spread around his head like a halo. “Oh god,” With shaking fingers she reached out, her fingers pressed against his throat, but there was nothing there, she couldn’t feel anything—

“No,” She said thickly, “No, no, no, no—“ She slid her hands into his hair to move his head, to try and shake him awake, trying to convince herself that he had a pulse she just couldn’t feel it, but his eyes were open, and he was silent, and she felt the sticky wetness at the back of his head, “No, no—“

She couldn’t breathe. She dropped his head and lifted her shaking fingers up and saw it, saw the stains on her fingertips, it was dark but when she lifted her hands into the moonlight from the windows she saw it, red, “Oh god,” She heaved, she felt like she was going to throw up, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe—

She needed Tom. She needed Tom.

Her bloodstained fingers sought out his phone, reaching into his pocket and staining his trousers red. She held it in her hands, pressed the home button and watched the screen light up. On the screen she saw a picture of two smiling boys, one was the man beside her who now stared into space with wide, blank, dark eyes and a halo of blood behind him, and the other—

She recognized him. Rodolphus strange had his arm around this man’s shoulders and he was smiling in a haughty, genuine way she hadn’t seen before. A sob ripped its way through her throat, and it didn’t matter how hard she tried, there was nothing to stop the tears that welled up in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly navigate to the emergency call screen.

With those shaking, bloody fingers, she dialed Tom’s number.


End file.
